


His Hercules

by evilmaniclaugh



Series: Mythologies [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Manpain, Mourning, Politics, Post Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 47,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: Sequel to His Ganymede. Set after episode 3.9, Treville's death is weighing heavy on all Musketeer shoulders, but it's only during the wake that Porthos realises how much more Athos has lost.    With a gnawing sense of clarity, Porthos stood, banging his tankard on the table in order to gain attention, and then spoke of a good man who had been stolen from them, a man who had only ever tried to do his best. Treville had been father in all ways that mattered to a king, parent to hundreds  of soldiers, yet it was becoming startlingly obvious that he’d meant so much more to one who sat quietly amongst them.





	1. Chapter 1

Experience had taught Porthos many lessons in life, one of the most important being that knowledge should be acquired in small doses. Unfortunately, on this terrible night, the reverse was the case, insight coming to him in a sudden flash of inspiration as he watched Athos mourn -- not drinking, not speaking, sitting apart from the rest as he grieved silently for Treville.

With a gnawing sense of clarity, Porthos stood, banging his tankard on the table in order to gain attention, and then spoke of a good man who had been stolen from them, a man who had only ever tried to do his best. Treville had been father in all ways that mattered to a king, parent to hundreds of soldiers, yet it was becoming startlingly obvious that he’d meant so much more to one who sat quietly amongst them.

It wasn’t often that Porthos cried, but seeing Athos stone cold sober and yet closer to destruction than ever before brought him to the verge of tears. Only an unexpected attack on their stronghold by Marcheaux and his men saved him from this embarrassment.

Afterwards, with the garrison burnt to cinders and other good men lost, Porthos made a silent vow that he would never again allow such harm to come to his people. D’Artagnan held Constance in his arms, both blackened from soot and sobbing with relief that the fire had not parted them from one another. Aramis’ thoughts lay with the queen and the dauphin, his family under threat as they always seemed to be at present. In contrast, Elodie and baby Marie were safe, tucked away in a cosy little house that had been paid for with wages accumulated during the war, however they were not the ones at the forefront of Porthos’ mind.

It was at this terrible hour that Athos, though broken inside, came into his own as captain. “This is our home, but it is not the garrison,” he told them when all seemed lost. “Wherever we draw breath, make a stand, save a life. That is the the garrison. _We_ are the garrison,” he declared and Porthos had never been more proud of him.

Stealing a few moments alone with Aramis, Porthos gave voice to his suspicions. “I reckon that Athos and Treville were pretty close to one another.”

Aramis looked at him, his eyes shrewd with understanding. “As close as two men could be.”

Porthos was surprised and slightly irked that Aramis had, once again, kept something of such magnitude a secret from him. “You knew all along.”

“I had an inkling. I’ve only been sure of it since we returned to Paris,” replied his friend. “They never behaved with anything other than propriety, but there was a tie so strong between them that it was almost visible at times.”

As naïve as it might sound, this kind of attraction between soldiers was something that Porthos had never believed possible until today. The only sodomites he’d encountered up until now had been effeminate creatures who’d made his skin crawl. “I don’t doubt that it's true,” he said, “and yet I find it hard to imagine that they were intimate with one another. Physically I mean.” He tried to picture them in bed together and, feeling somewhat nauseous, put a stop to it quick. “It’s plain wrong.”

“Is it ever wrong to be in love?” questioned Aramis. “They never flaunted themselves. They never made our lives difficult. They never asked anything of us, of anyone, except to respect their privacy. In my opinion they were the bravest of us all.”

Porthos was hit by a sudden wave of shame. Love between two men was not something he could readily understand, but who was he to act as judge? Especially when a friend's world had so recently been blown to smithereens, long before any gunpowder had gone off.

Athos had known Treville for the majority of his life and Porthos, try as hard as he might, could not comprehend the severing of such a bond. “What can we do to help him?” he asked in a low voice.

“Be there,” said Aramis. “Save him from himself.”

\---

The appearance of Lucien Grimaud at the blessing ceremony for the new king set in motion a series of events that disrupted their lives still further. With the refugees now safe, Porthos came close to beating the daylights out of d'Artagnan when he discovered that Athos had been allowed to go after Grimaud alone.

“He’s my captain,” said d’Artagnan. “He insisted I stay back.”

“That’s as maybe, but it didn’t mean you had to listen to him.” Furious, Porthos tried to make sense of D’Artagnan’s actions. Habitually insubordinate by nature, why had he chosen this particular moment to follow the orders of a commanding officer who was injured and driven by a need for revenge?

“I begged Athos to let me go with him.” The words echoed down empty stone corridors.

Ignoring him, Porthos charged along the passageways, a minotaur lost in his maze. Reaching new levels of desperation he eventually found Athos, a wet and dishevelled mess, hunched over in exhaustion with the drowned corpse of Grimaud laid out nearby.

“It’s done,” the man said wearily. “I failed to kill him so many times that I was beginning to doubt that he was mortal. If only I had succeeded before.” 

He buried his face in his hands and Porthos, not knowing what to do for the best, remained silent until the storm had passed.

“You kept Sylvie and the refugees safe from harm,” said Athos when he had recovered enough to speak. “I am grateful.”

“I only wish I’d done the same for Treville,” said Porthos and clasping Athos by the forearm he pulled him to his feet and into a bearhug. “I know what he was to you,” he added, his words little more than a breath.

Athos went limp in Porthos’ arms and for a moment it seemed that all had become too much and his friend had simply given up and slipped away from this world.

“I cannot help what I am,” came a sentence that proved he was still amongst the living.

“I’m not judging you,” assured Porthos. “I’m here for you. I need you to know that.”

“Thank you,” said Athos and it was heartfelt.

\---

With Grimaud dead and Gaston making an unexpected acquaintance with St Peter, the queen was now free to rule unchallenged as regent, her son by her side and Aramis in a position to watch over them.

It should have brought about an end to this chapter of their lives, but instead Porthos was left with a head full of questions and a heart full of confusion.

“You turned down the queen’s offer of promotion,” said Athos as the two men sat together outside a tavern, swilling ale from tankards and watching the world go by. “I would have thought being general of your own army would flatter that inflated ego of yours.”

“Cheeky bastard,” laughed Porthos. “The chance of wearing fancy armour was appealing, I grant you, but if I’m fighting for a cause then I prefer to be in the thick of it.”

Athos tapped the ash from his pipe on a boot heel then tucked it away in his pocket. “You’ll stay in Paris with Elodie and Marie Cessette, I take it?”

“No,” said Porthos. He wasn’t yet sure what he did want from life, but a ready made family wasn’t it. “I’ve ensured that they’ll be well looked after. Delivering a child into the world gives one a certain responsibility.”

“Then I pity all midwives,” interjected Athos, that wry humour still in place despite the constant furrow of sadness on his face.

“Shut it.” Porthos laughed again, resisting a strong urge to reach for Athos’ hand and squeeze. “You know what I mean. I intend to take care of them as friend and guardian. Sylvie will look after them when I’m not around to do it.”

“She will indeed,” said Athos with a nod.

The leader of the refugees had quickly established herself in a niche role, nurturing her flock and teaching all those with a yen for knowledge how to read, write and fight for their dues. Being a warrior was put on hold for the time being and if Hubert were still alive, he would be a proud father.

“We were sure you were in love with Sylvie,” said Porthos. “At least d’Artagnan and I were certain of it. Seems that Aramis was more astute than either of us.”

“Our friend is the most astute of all men and yet incredibly foolish when it comes to matters of his own heart,” said Athos, guiding the topic of conversation away from himself with masterful ease.

“He’s happy,” said Porthos with a shrug.

“As usual, where Aramis is concerned, there are rumours.” Athos sighed. “He and the queen are not behaving as discreetly as they ought to under the circumstances.”

“Perhaps you should give him lessons,” chuckled Porthos.

“I would do just that if I planned to remain in Paris,” replied Athos. 

Porthos felt an ache in his chest, over and above anything he had ever felt before. He and Athos had been brothers in arms for a decade. The idea of being parted from him was devastating, something akin to the grief he had felt when his mother had died. It was sudden and shocking.

“But you’re captain of the Musketeers,” he said.

“And a poor one at that,” admitted Athos. “I took over because Treville asked me to, but my heart was never in it.” He stared at the contents of his tankard. “When I was a boy my sole ambition was to be in command of the Gardes Françaises. Death and war soon taught me that soldiering was not the joy I imagined it to be. You’re the one who has turned out to be the hero.” He smiled at Porthos. “The Hercules of our world.” His happiness then faded. “I am-”

“You are?” prompted Porthos after a moment or two had passed, needing to hear more. In all the years he'd known him, his friend had never spoken so freely.

“I’m lost,” admitted Athos. “With Treville gone, Paris is no longer my home.”

“Will you go back to La Fère?”

Athos shook his head. “Giving the people of Piñon rights to their own land was the one good deed that I have done. If I return then they will naturally assume I am taking over once more and that is the last thing I'd ever wish. In fact-”

Porthos refilled both cups from the jug, hoping to lubricate the passage of words.

“I would like to convince others to do the same.” Athos looked up, his eyes bright with passion for the first time in months. “Explain to the liege lords that peasant farmers have more rights to the land than they do. Educate the people that they should not have to eke out a bare living in servitude.”

“Athos, you’re talking about inciting rebellion,” said Porthos, looking around him in panic. Even a mention of this kind of seditious act could land his friend back in the Châtelet. Or worse.

“A slow revolution, if you will,” explained Athos. “A war of words rather than weapons. I do not intend to arm every town militia and have them charge the palace.”

“You must put an end to this nonsense now,” said Porthos urgently, taking Athos’ hand as he had wanted to earlier and sandwiching it between his. “You’re not yourself. You’re grieving and because of it you’re not thinking straight. Stay as captain. Rebuild the Musketeers. Make Treville proud of you.”

“He would be proud of me whatever I do,” said Athos, the passion retreating to somewhere deep inside of him. “He always was. He always will be.”

\---

Porthos spent the next few days locked in a quandary. With no one to confide in he counseled himself privately, guided by both waking thoughts and dreams. His decision made, he then rode to the palace for an audience with Aramis and the queen.

“And this is truly what you desire?” said Anne. “You’d choose this over promotion to general?”

Porthos nodded. “I’m not ready to resign my commission just yet, but I would be grateful for an extended leave of absence, your Majesty.”

She looked from minister to soldier. “You are both convinced that d’Artagnan is able to take over as captain of the Musketeers?”

“On his own, no,” replied Porthos, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But with Constance at his side then it’s a different matter entirely.”

Anne laughed, her face lighting up with pleasure at his words.

“Treville had always intended that one day d’Artagnan would become commander of the regiment,” said Aramis. “Not so soon admittedly, but Athos choosing to leave has forced our hand.”

“And he cannot be convinced to stay?” questioned Anne.

Porthos shook his head. “I’ve tried persuading him til I'm blue in the face, your Majesty. Same goes for Aramis, but Athos is determined that this is the right course of action for him.”

“Then we are agreed,” said Anne, looking out of the window, her face softening as she took in the vista below. “It’s time for Louis’ riding lesson. If you’ll excuse me I’d like to see how he’s progressing.”

With the queen hurrying away to the palace grounds, the two men retired to Aramis' private chambers, an informal setting which allowed them the chance to speak more openly.

“Athos is not a child, Porthos,” said Aramis, pouring drinks from a decanter. “He will manage fine without either of us.”

If their friend had been returning to his manor then Porthos would have agreed wholeheartedly, but this was not the case. His plans were loaded with danger, frankly rather unhinged, and there was no way he would allow him to career headlong into trouble on his own.

“He needs me,” said Porthos. “To explain further I would have to betray him and I won’t do that, but let me go with your blessing and I will do my best to keep us all safe.”

“I don’t like what I'm hearing,” replied Aramis.

Porthos had no further assurances to offer except one. “Have faith in me.”

“I do,” said Aramis, clapping a hand down firmly on Porthos’ shoulder. “You’ve steered me through the worst of times and now I trust you to do the same for Athos.”

“I intend to do just that.” Porthos rose from his chair, the steel of his weaponry clanking as he did so.

“Take care, my friend,” said Aramis, embracing him firmly. “Paris will be a better place when you two are back from your adventures.” 

Porthos returned the hug with vigour. “Au revoir, mon frère. Hopefully we’ll be home in a few weeks once Athos has finished grieving.” He grinned. “Now I must tell him the happy news of my companionship. Let’s pray he takes it as well as you and the queen have done.”

\---

“No, Porthos. Absolutely not. I forbid you to even consider it.”

Porthos chuckled under his breath. Athos was the coolest man he’d ever known. He’d seen him unleash the occasional burst of temper, but this was a fully fledged tantrum, something he'd never experienced in a decade of friendship.

“I will not allow it,” raged Athos. “These are my plans, my wishes, and the last thing I need is to have you dragging along behind me, naysaying every move I make.”

“Tough,” growled Porthos. “Because that's what's going to happen. Either that or I go straight to the queen and tell her all about your ridiculous ideas. I’m sure she’ll find somewhere elegant to lock you up.”

“You wouldn't,” said Athos, clearly aghast.

“Oh believe me I would,” replied Porthos, folding his arms. “And now that the decision has been made, you may as well gather your stuff together because there's no time like the present.”

It did not take long to prepare for their adventures. A day later they mustered in the garrison courtyard, reconstruction work still going on around them, to say farewell to their friends.

“Train your cadets well, d’Artagnan,” said Athos. “You’re the best soldier I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. Now you must become the best captain.”

“I can’t do it,” said the young man, wearing a face that was as miserable as a wet weekend. “I’m no match for either you or Treville.”

“Of course you are,” remonstrated Constance.

“You can do it and you will,” said Porthos. “I expect to see a proper army here when we return.”

“You are coming back then?” D’Artagnan looked up, a little more hope in his eyes.

“Indeed.” Porthos clamped an arm around his shoulders, noting that Athos remained stoically silent on the subject. “We’ll be reunited before you can blink, my young friend.”

After a final round of goodbyes he then mounted his horse, watching as Athos followed suit. It was strange to see the man out of uniform, dressed handsomely with his hair tied back from his face. He looked much younger like this, even under the heavy weight of grief which stood out more starkly than ever to those in the know, the recent mention of Treville's name coming as a fresh reminder of his loss.

“Ready to ride?” said Porthos, his broad smile an affirmation that he would be a constant presence at Athos’ side and, when necessary, a thorn in it.

Athos nodded and gathered his reins. “Despite behaving like an ingrate yesterday, I appreciate all that you do for me,” he said, his voice low in volume and intended only for Porthos' ears.

“What lies ahead of us, I wonder,” said Porthos to himself as he followed his former captain out of the garrison gates.


	2. Chapter 2

Heading westwards, they travelled for several hours before stopping at a roadside coaching inn. Once established in a lodging room, Porthos abandoned his Musketeer uniform in favour of simple breeches and a shirt. He’d been aware of the necessity to do so, but had been unwilling to ride away away from the garrison without wearing his kit. It had been many years since he’d been so underdressed and it felt strange to descend the staircase without the protection of his pauldron.

“You look an entirely different man,” remarked Athos who was sitting in a quiet corner of the taproom, nose buried in a book. “Never shave the beard or I'll be hard pushed to recognise you.”

“It’s no less strange for me,” replied Porthos. “I’m a new man.” He paused, processing Athos’ changed appearance once again. “And so are you.”

Athos closed the book and placed it on the table, steepling his fingers and leaning forward in a manner so reminiscent of Treville that once again Porthos’ heart ached in his chest.

“As a small boy, seeing my father and Treville in their uniforms made me believe that soldiers were nothing short of gods. By the end of my stint in the army those same clothes had begun to feel like shackles.”

Porthos enjoyed hearing smatterings of Athos' former life. He knew very little of it, other than the tragedy that had befallen him in his twenties. A glimpse into earlier years was a blueprint -- the making of a man. “It sounds as though you put them both on a pedestal.”

Athos laughed, calling the landlord over with a wave of his hand. “That I did, Porthos. Quite literally in a sense. Treville carted my father back from Amiens when he was desperately wounded and close to death. He was a hero for doing so and afterwards I looked up to him as a saviour. Over the years my feelings grew and he became my Achilles in all ways.”

Porthos knew the story of that famous warrior well and could recognise the importance of it in a pair of clear, green eyes.

“Enough of this,” continued Athos, turning instead to their newly arrived host. “A jug of ale and the best food you have in the kitchen.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the landlord. “Cook has just this minute taken a mutton pie out of the oven.”

In contrast to usual, Porthos’ appetite tonight favoured stories rather than food. “Tell me more,” he urged when they were alone once more.

Athos shook his head. “You know the rest. It’s your turn now. Tell me about young Porthos and Flea growing up in the Court of Miracles. You two must have got up to some mischief.”

Porthos, a born raconteur, was soon entertaining Athos with tales of his past.

“There was this time when Flea decided she was going to earn money on her back, as it were. She planned to sneak into one of the brothels in the Beaubourg Quartier and steal some fancy underwear from one of the whores. I went with her of course. I s’pose I was twelve or thirteen at the time with a strong interest in that kind of thing, if you know what I mean.”

“I can imagine.” Athos' lips tugged up at the corner and Porthos was pleased. He hadn’t seen that particular smile for a long time.

“Anyway,” he continued. “There we were in one of the rooms. Flea was rooting through the wardrobe and I was trying to work out what could be done with all the tools of the trade on display when we heard footsteps stopping outside the door. There was no time to make it out of the window so we hid under the bed where we could hear everything. If I peered outwards at just the right angle I could see a little bit of what was going on in the dressing mirror.”

“You stayed there while they were at it?” said Athos in disbelief.

“What else could we do?” laughed Porthos. “When it was over and they’d gone, Flea looked down at the ten sous he’d left for services rendered and vowed there must be a better way of making a living. She still stole some of the clothes though. And brought home a dildo. We had fun learning what to do with that.”

“You really were a pair of troublemakers,” said Athos. “Do you ever regret leaving her?”

Porthos shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “She had her ambitions and I had mine. Like you, I always dreamt of being a soldier.”

“And now I’ve taken you away from all that you love,” said Athos softly.

“I’m giving fate a free hand for once,” replied Porthos. “So far I have no qualms about it.”

“So far we’ve done nothing but eat, drink and talk,” smiled Athos.

Porthos finished off his plate of food. “And long may it remain that way.”

\---

That night, however, brought with it a series of unexpected worries. Porthos had shared a bed with Athos many times during the past without a hint of anxiety and yet now--now that he knew the truth--it made their present situation undeniably awkward. It didn’t help matters that he’d spent half the evening reminiscing about his love life. Together, he and Flea had learned all there was to know about sex, and it had been easy to fall back into old ways when he’d been reunited with her at their old stomping grounds. He'd seen her again three or four times since then and they’d always ended up having a fuck. 

His arousal wasn’t obvious, yet there was a low level thrum of excitement coursing through him and the urge to sort himself out was fierce. Heading for the baths, with the excuse that he was rank after so many hours of riding, Porthos was disappointed to discover that the door had no lock. In addition to that, one of the tubs was occupied by a rotund fellow who introduced himself as M Denis. Not ideal to say the least.

After a quick splash wash, Porthos made his way back to the room to discover that his bed partner for the night was already fast asleep and snoring gently. Knowing that he had no choice but to make the best of a bad situation, he climbed in between the sheets, all of a sudden ashamed at himself for turning molehills into mountains. He’d shared with Athos on countless occasions, the pair of them even going so far as to cuddle up on winter mornings in order to ward off the cold. Nothing untoward had ever occurred then, so why should it now?

Snuffing out the candle he set aside his worries and matched breaths with Athos, gaining comfort from being close to his grieving friend. The fresh air, good food, and beer worked their magic and before long he was yawning and unable to keep his eyes open.

He woke some hours later, the grey light of dawn flooding the room and illuminating a troubled face next to him. 

“I dreamt that Treville was alive,” said Athos, letting out a sigh.

Porthos patted him on the shoulder. “It will get easier,” he promised and then a question popped into his mind. “It must have been pretty difficult finding time to spend together.”

Athos turned his head to look at Porthos, his expression guarded. “As difficult as it is for you to speak of such things.”

“I admit it came as a shock when I first figured it out, but I'm used to the idea now,” said Porthos. “If it helps you to talk about him then I’m happy to listen.”

“What is there to say?” Athos then revealed the full extent of his misery, not tearful but certainly close to despair. “He was my world for the entirety of my life and now he’s gone. Yes, it was difficult to maintain a relationship, but we managed it well enough. He was my teacher, my friend, my lover, my partner in all ways. He was everything and more to me. I loved him with all of my heart since the day I first came to understand what that meant.”

“How did I not see it?” said Porthos, the bare bones of truth and second hand pain causing him to feel small and stupid. “I’m sorry, Athos. I’ve let you down badly.”

“Far from it,” replied Athos. “You force me to talk about him and that keeps him alive. Only in my heart and yet it's better than him being lost forever.”

“He’ll never be lost,” vowed Porthos. “I’ll see to that.” It may not have been an appropriate time to ask another personal question, but it had been on the tip of his tongue since finding out about them and curiosity now got the better of him. “Did it not frighten you to have these kind of feelings for another man? I'm sure I would’ve been terrified if it were me.”

Athos stared up at the beams on the ceiling, his brow furrowing as he considered the matter. “It should have done,” he said eventually, “but all I can recall is a slow realisation that he was the one for me. He rejected me time and time again and yet I never felt anything but delight at being in love with him. The one mistake I made was to marry Anne. Even before I did so, I offered him one last chance for us to be together.”

“If only he had taken that opportunity,” said Porthos, who knew the tragic story that followed all too well by now.

“We spoke of that often,” said Athos. “But he was my father's best friend and at the time he felt it was his duty to protect me rather than bed me.”

Porthos could only imagine the heartbreak Treville must have suffered afterwards, losing Athos and then finding him in such a sorry state at the battlefields in La Rochelle. He’d been there to witness this agony but had not understood its depths, and his fervent wish now was that his younger self had been gifted with prescience in order to help both men through such a difficult reunion.

“You feel too much, Porthos,” said Athos. “You always have. What’s done is done and now I must make the most of what remains. I have a lot to be thankful for.”

Porthos smiled and slapped an arm down heavily across Athos’ shoulders. He too had reason to be grateful. “Come on then, brother. Let’s break our fast and then be away from here before the weather gets any hotter.” 

It would be easier travelling in lightweight clothing, but despite knowing this Porthos was filled with a sense of regret as he handed over his uniform to the landlord, paying him a healthy sum to store it for however long they would be gone -- months, years perhaps. He might be lost without the comforting familiarity of that leather armour, but for the first time since setting out, the idea of being away from the routine of Musketeer life was becoming a relief. Already he was growing used to the freedoms of civvy street.

“Where are we headed?” he asked as the horses picked up to a canter and they headed further west.

“Before we left, Sylvie told me of places where they were ripe for change,” replied Athos. He turned to Porthos and once again his eyes were bright with excitement. “In addition to this, I have some limited knowledge of the aristocracy and an idea of those men who will at least give us a fair hearing.”

Porthos sank into his saddle, filled with despondency. He’d hoped that being away from Paris, Athos would give up trying to change the world. “And if you encounter someone along the way as intransigent as my belovéd father what will you do then?”

“Debate, argue, fight, who knows?” said Athos, offering Porthos a familiar smirk. “We shall see when the time comes.”

Some hours later it was with a heavy heart that Porthos followed him through the gates of Le Coudray Macouard. “You're a flaming idiot if you think that Anjou is the place to start a rebellion,” he muttered as they dismounted and tethered their horses to the post by the trough. “With Marie de Medici just down the road in Angers? She’s the grandmother of the bloody king, for Christ’s sake.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Look around you, Porthos. What do you see?”

Whilst Athos equipped himself, satchel slung across his shoulder and the bare essentials of weaponry attached to his belt, Porthos did as he was told and was shocked at what he saw. 

This had once been one of the most abundant regions in France, but today it was a shadow of its former self. He remembered riding through here on the way to La Rochelle, impressed at the richness of the area and the loyalty of the people. Without doubt, war with Spain had taken its toll. Even those places that lay far from the border had suffered the effects. The market stalls in the square here had little to offer and the village folk shuffled about despondently, looking half starved and miserable.

“Sylvie was right,” said Athos. “The king has been demanding increasingly high taxes and this is the result of it. Do you see now what I am talking about?”

Without waiting for an answer he strode into the tavern, Porthos following on behind at a loss. He had always been loyal to crown and country, more than ever now that he was well acquainted with the queen regent and knew her to be a kind and intelligent ruler, but this was indeed a rotten state of affairs; the refugees from the borderlands were not the only ones unhappy with their lot. Even so he was still awash with panic. What Athos proposed doing was dangerous. More to the point it was high treason and a capital offence to boot.

“Stop worrying.” Athos sat at one of the tables. “Fill your belly. Drink a cup or two of wine. I’m not about to make speeches and rally the cause. This is not something that can happen overnight.” He paused, connecting with Porthos, his gaze true and firm. “But it _will_ happen. With or without us.”

“What would Treville think of your intentions?” asked Porthos. He spoke low and urgently and Athos replied in the same manner.

“Surely you remember how he stood by me in Piñon, rousing the townsfolk into action when they refused to listen to my words? Jean was a man of the people. He believed in this as much as I did.”

Porthos recalled fighting alongside the captain on several occasions when they had been defending the rights of the downtrodden. “Your feller was a pretty amazing bloke.”

He was surprised at how easy it was becoming to think of them as a couple. 

The serving girl arrived at an opportune moment, bringing with her a jug of wine and two cups, and once she had gone Athos filled both tankards. “He was the best of men.”

Porthos joined in with the toast. “And what is the plan for tomorrow?”

“Nothing more solid than to see what the day brings,” replied Athos. “Sylvie printed up some leaflets for me before we left and I’ll leave them around the place for people to read.”

Porthos sighed. He was beginning to tire of hearing that woman’s name so often on Athos’ lips.

Athos picked up on that expression of disapproval and misinterpreted it. “Don’t worry; I’ll be subtle.” He then paused and looked thoughtfully at Porthos. “I’d also like to approach the Baron de St Vincent to hear his thoughts on the subject.”

This idea filled Porthos with dread. It had the potential to be a sure route back to Paris with the two of them clapped in irons. “You’re being too hasty,” he said, watching as Athos swallowed down the entire contents of the cup and immediately refilled it. “One more thing,” he added as warning. “If you start drinking like a fish then I’ll be leaving right now.”

“Start?” Athos huffed with laughter and it was an unhappy sound. “I’ll do as you ask and try to limit myself, but drinking is a disease of the body and mind and one with which I am landed for the remainder of my days.”

Porthos shrugged, unwilling to accept that there was anything that couldn't be overcome with a little effort. “I’m surprised Treville wasn’t able to convince you to be free of it.”

“I have to drink something,” responded Athos with a shrug. “You know as well as I do that water is not safe. Streams and wells can be full of corruption.”

“Excuses, excuses,” muttered Porthos, black mood descending like a cloud. “And you’ve always been full of them where wine is concerned. The reason you ended up in that predicament back at Piñon was because you’d drunk yourself into oblivion.”

“As I recall, it ended well enough,” said Athos, quirking an eyebrow.

“You were beaten and came close to being whipped, all because you were foolish enough to overdo the brandy,” said Porthos. “I’m surprised Treville ever forgave you for it.”

The corner of Athos’ mouth tugged upwards. “The reason I was so drunk on that particular occasion was because he and I had been arguing,” he admitted. “He was furious at being treated badly by the king. He kept going on and on about leaving the Musketeers and I was trying to convince him to stop being such a stubborn fool. We had a dreadful row and I stormed off, determined that I’d had it with him and his nonsense.”

Porthos understood now why it had been so difficult to convince Treville that Athos’ disappearance was anything out of the ordinary. “He was sulking with you!” He let out a bellow of laughter, his mood lightening instantly. “You pair of idiots.”

“We made up afterwards,” smirked Athos.

They had splintered into two parties on the journey home, Treville taking Athos off for a few days in order to _sort him out_ , as he had described it, and Porthos found himself blushing at the memory. Aramis must surely have had his suspicions back then. He was beginning to feel as innocent as a newborn babe.

Why did they always end up talking of such things so close to bedtime? The words used were as naïve as Porthos had once been and yet it was the expression on Athos’ face as he slipped back in time, heart full of love, that caused Porthos to react strongly. Had they turned around and gone straight back to La Fère that day? The old house had been shut up for years, but it was once Athos’ home and it was there that they had first fallen in love. He couldn’t help but imagine the two men, anxious to make amends, coming together in one of the four poster beds.

Trudging unwillingly up the creaking wooden staircase he knew, with a heavy heart, that sleep would be difficult to achieve that night.

Tossing around from side to side, keeping Athos awake with his restlessness, he eventually conceded the battle and sat up.

“Have you ever known any other couples like yourselves?” he asked, watching out of the window as the moon was swallowed by a black whale of cloud and their room became swathed in darkness.

“No,” said Athos. “Treville assured me that it was more common than one might think, especially in the army, but I never heard a whisper about anyone else. I only knew of these things from the classics.”

“Achilles and Patroclus,” Porthos supplied helpfully. “Your favourites.”

“My favourites indeed.” Undercover of night, Athos chuckled and it was an appealing sound. “There was also Alexander and Hephaestion, on record as being lovers true to each other until the end. Honestly there are so many more, I can’t recall them all. The Sacred Band of Thebes were an army made up of homosexual couples. Herodotus wrote about Harmodius and Aristogeiton who saved Athens from tyranny. Even Pliny had several loving relationships with men. You asked me once if I had ever questioned my feelings for Treville and I suppose this is the reason I never thought to do so. I grew up learning about these men as heroes. My father would often say I never stopped talking about them and so it seemed the most natural thing in the world to fall in love with Treville.”

“Tell me more,” said Porthos, quite fascinated by now, his earlier concerns laid to rest as he listened to Athos’ musical voice recounting the histories of the ancient Greeks and Romans who had made their mark on the world, untroubled by the kind of bigotries that existed today.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank you,” said Athos, next morning as they readied themselves for a new day.

“What for?” asked Porthos as he pulled on his boots. “I’ve done nothing so far but borrow your razor.”

“You allow me to be myself,” said Athos softly. “You might hold me to task over certain things, but as promised you never judge me.”

“And I never shall.” Porthos grinned. “Though I will always tell you when you’re in the wrong.”

“As every friend should,” said Athos, reaching up and hooking an arm around Porthos’ shoulders. 

“You still intend to visit the baron today?” asked Porthos. “You must know that’s not a good idea.”

“We shall see,” replied Athos. “You have full permission to give me a thrashing if it proves to be a mistake.”

“Better ready your arse for one then,” Porthos grumbled, conceding to Athos, but far from happy about doing so. 

He was even less happy when they arrived in the stables to be greeted by the sight of the ostler who was distracted from his work, slowly trying to decipher the meaning of a pamphlet. Looking around, Porthos caught sight of a pile of similar papers, left on an old saddle by the door. Athos must have been up before dawn to distribute these around the village.

“It says here that I should demand fair pay for my work and not have to give most of it back in taxes to the king, the liege lord and the church.” The old man stared at the leaflet, presumably deep in thought. “But who will protect us if we turn our backs on the nobles?”

“There must be a reason why the common people should not arm themselves, or be allowed to self govern,” said Athos as he took the reins of his horse.

“I can’t think of one.” The stable lad finished tacking up Porthos' horse and joined in with the conversation.

“I work all the hours of the day and when I get home there isn't even a meal on the table, because all the victuals are being taken to supply the army,” said the ostler. “That’s not right surely?”

“I suppose not,” said Athos. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“Is this how you intend to start a revolution?” asked Porthos once they were mounted and safely out of earshot. “By making folks feel even more discontent with their lives?”

“A single acorn is all that’s needed to start an oak forest,” replied Athos.

“And it doesn’t take much to burn that forest down,” snapped Porthos. “When we were growing up in the Court of Miracles we had nothing. The only thing that kept us going was hope.”

“Not so.” Athos shook his head. “You fought tooth and nail to get out of that slum. Flea fought for justice from inside. Charon fought to get rich and paid for it with his life. Imagine if everyone forced to live there had banded together and broken down the walls. You all deserved a better life. Every one of you, even the drunks on the streets.”

Porthos aimed a glare at his companion. “I don’t understand you at all. Why do you want to change the world so badly?”

“I struggle to comprehend why you don’t,” said Athos, drawing back and staring at him in defiance. “Back in Paris you acted as if Sylvie was the enemy for trying to make a difference. You called her efforts sedition. I understand your loyalty to the crown, but surely you can see that the balance of society is wrong?”

“I’m a Musketeer, Athos,” explained Porthos. “I’m proud of being a soldier in the king’s regiment and I intend to remain so until my dying day. I support you as my friend, however I will never condone any act of treason.”

“Then I fear we must part company,” said Athos earnestly. “If you think I’m doing this because I’m out of my mind with grief then you are mistaken. I’m inconsolable, it’s true, but I’m doing this because I know it to be right.”

“Sorry, but I won’t be going anywhere,” declared Porthos. “I vowed to protect you and I intend to do just that.”

“Even if it leads you straight to the gallows?” asked Athos.

“It won’t,” said Porthos and then he grinned. “You, my friend, have clearly misunderstood what’s meant by protection. We’ll neither of us come to any harm. I’ll see to that.”

Political discourse set aside by mutual agreement, the journey improved no end. The weather was pleasant, the sun casting its glow over the countryside whilst a gentle breeze kept them cool. Along the way they stopped at a small pond to water the horses, and the spot was so peaceful that Porthos suggested they rest a while and have an early lunch.

Athos was unnervingly quiet, not bothering to eat, instead balling pieces of bread between his fingers and chucking them past the lily pads and into the deeper water. Huge fish rose to the surface from the sediment, prehistoric grey shadows that arched upwards to engulf the food and then slipped back into invisibility.

“If I've upset you then I apologise,” said Porthos, breaking the silence. “I never meant to do so.”

“What? No,” said Athos, looking around at him in bemused fashion. “Not at all. This place reminds me of the past. We had a pond at home, hidden away within a glade of trees just like this.” He paused, throwing another morsel to the fish. “Treville used to take me frogging there when I was a small boy.”

Porthos had no idea what was meant by this and hoped to God it wasn't anything dreadful. His expression must have said it all.

“Catching frogs,” explained Athos with a wry smile. “I was five or six when he first stayed with us. I never saw him again until I was eighteen. He was in service to King Henry during those years and entirely devoted to his duty.”

Everyone in France knew the story of Henry’s assassination and Porthos understood now why Treville had become so attached to the king's young son.

“He returned to La Fère a broken man,” continued Athos. “He spent months recuperating and we were glad to have him there.”

You especially, thought Porthos as he joined parts of the story together in his head. There were still chapters missing, but there was plenty of time for them to be added. 

“I kissed him then and it was the first time he rejected me,” said Athos. “He was so very honourable.” Shaking off the past, he stood and dusted himself down. “Have you finished your meal? We must make a move if we’re to arrive at the Chateau St Vincent at a reasonable hour.”

Porthos could have spent all day here, lounging beside the water amidst the broken shadows of the willow branches. He’d rather do anything than court favours from a baron, but Athos was a determined man when his mind was set on something, as Treville had discovered many years ago. 

The castle turned out to be a small manor house, more reminiscent of Athos’ former home than the shabby but impressive set up which belonged to Porthos’ own family.

“Are you regretting giving up your inheritance?” smirked Athos, reading his mind wrongly. “Your father was a wealthy man.”

“All of it delivered by foul means rather than fair,” growled Porthos. “I’d rather earn my own title, thank you very much.”

“One day you will,” said Athos. “Have I ever told you how much you impress me?” he added as he dismounted and handed his horse over to a stable lad. “If not it is long overdue.”

Porthos swelled with pride. Ever since they were acquainted, Athos had been a hard drinking, taciturn man, not prone to displays of affection. He was, however, a hero to Porthos in all ways, a defender of those who could not protect themselves, a courageous and honest soldier who fought like a lion to the end. To be honest, this new venture of his was dangerous, but not entirely out of character.

“Thanks,” he said in a gruff voice. “Same goes for me.”

As they made their way to the formal entrance of the house Porthos looked askance at Athos. “Why would they even let us in the door? Two former soldiers with no reason for being here.”

“De St Vincent is an intelligent man and a good one at heart.” Athos cocked his head to one side. “I have a plan.”

The door creaked open and a manservant stared at them with suspicious eyes.

“We’re here to raise funds for the order of St Martin,” said Athos. “Your master wished to speak to us in person.”

With a grudging amount of deference they were allowed into the hallway and then shown into a small library where a young man sat at a desk, studying documents and running fingers through unkempt hair. “How may I help?” he asked without looking up.

Porthos could see from the expression on Athos’ face that this was not the person he was expecting and his heart sank, the jangling of prison chains loud in his head.

“The baron is not here?” said Athos.

“He passed away a year ago.” The young man turned and stood, examining his visitors for the first time. “For what it’s worth, I am the Baron de St Vincent and any business you had with my father will now be conducted through me. If you are expecting a donation I’m afraid it will be a meagre one.”

It was a surprise to see him dressed in far more simple attire than they were, a fact which added to the validity of his words and resonated with Porthos.

“The brothers in the order of St Martin are struggling to survive,” said Athos, going on to describe their situation at length.

He was so convincing that Porthos was certain his story was based on fact. One of Sylvie’s pet causes no doubt.

“The taxes of food and money to fund these endless wars are stripping the people of everything,” continued Athos. “They have nothing left to give. They haven’t enough to feed and clothe themselves, let alone others.”

“I am in a similar predicament myself,” said St Vincent. “At least those in the religious orders are looked after by the church.”

“The smaller ones survive mostly on the generosity of the local people,” explained Athos.

“My hands are tied,” said the baron, wringing them as evidence. “The king’s tax collectors arrive ever more frequently and demand extra each time. The supply regiments strip the fields and granaries. They take game from our land. We cannot go on like this. Something must be done. There is talk amongst the nobles of Anjou. We were loyal to the crown. We stood firm during the Huguenot uprisings and war with the English and we are repaid in this fashion just to fund a war that is nothing more than family infighting. And now, with a Spanish regent on the throne, things can only get worse.”

“The queen must be given a chance,” said Porthos and suffered a withering look from Athos as a result.

“She has shared the throne with the weakest of all monarchs for years,” said St Vincent. “She has done nothing except hand out largesse once a year to the people of Paris.”

“A change is needed,” agreed Athos.

“I should not be telling you this, but the talk in Angers is of raising arms against them,” said the baron.

“How is a war on two fronts going to help matters?” interjected Porthos. He could feel the look of disapproval from Athos without having to witness it.

“You cannot expect your peasant farmers, who are currently starving to death, to make up an army,” said Athos in a calm voice. “You need to resolve this at a more basic level. Let the people work their land as if it were their own. Let them sell their crops and keep their earnings. If they are strong then you will all be able to resist the tax collectors. Make a stand together.”

“You are more knowledgeable and compassionate than most charitable workers I’ve met,” said St Vincent.

“Forgive me for speaking my mind,” said Athos. “But this is a subject close to my heart.”

“No need to apologise,” said the young nobleman. “You’ve supplied me with food for thought. I shall try and return the favour by sending a donation to St Martin when I can spare it.”

“Thank you,” said Athos, bowing his head. “It will be much appreciated. Good day, sir and thank you for your time.”

As the outer doors closed behind them Porthos let out a huge sigh of relief, grateful that this first mission of theirs had not resulted in disaster.

“I think that went rather well,” said Athos as he swung into the saddle of his horse. “Better than I expected. The son is more amenable even than his father.”

“You were lucky,” said Porthos. “You had no idea which way his allegiances might lie and yet you still charged in without thought.”

“He was as easy to read as a book,” replied Athos, dismissing Porthos’ words. “You were the one to misjudge the situation, espousing loyalty to the queen every five minutes.”

“I’ve told you before that judgement’s not my style,” growled Porthos. “On the other hand, loyalty is and I do not intend to change my position any time soon.”

“Then I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”

The roll of eyes that accompanied Athos' words did little to defuse their quarrel and they spent the remainder of the journey back to Le Coudray Macouard blanketed in a heavy silence.

“This is stupid,” said Porthos, when smoke from nearby chimneys could be seen drifting up into the sky. “We’re too old to stop speaking.” 

Perhaps it was inevitable when two men grew closer. In latter years, he and Aramis had often been in a strop with each other.

“What you said was right,” said Athos. “I should have considered my words more carefully.”

“We both should,” said Porthos. “From now onwards we discuss things first. Less of the bull in the china shop approach, eh.”

“Agreed,” said Athos and his smile was a welcome sight.

Having stabled their horses for the night, Porthos was looking forward to another pleasant evening of conversation. No longer weighed down by soldiering Athos was becoming a garrulous man, talking at length on all subjects and opening his heart about more private matters when they were alone together.

It was apparent, however, from the moment they walked into the taproom that those plans for a relaxed dinner would not be seeing fruition.

A large crowd had gathered, all eyes turning to fix on them the moment they entered the inn.

Porthos, adrenaline pumping and hand edging towards his sword hilt, was somewhat relieved to see that the landlord, Albert, was still welcoming in his demeanour as he approached them with intent, one of those damn pamphlets clutched in his hand.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “These cannot have come from anyone but you, so please do not try to deny it.”

“Why would we?” said Athos, looking around at a sea of fascinated faces.

“My father has been farming for the lord all his life and now is not even making enough to feed the family,” said the stable boy. “Is it true what it says here that in some parts of France the people have been given rights to the land?”

“It is true,” replied Athos. “But only a very small number and with the willing agreement of their liege lord.”

There was a collective sigh of disappointment from around the room. 

“Then, like I told you all earlier, it is impossible,” muttered one of the women. There followed catcalls and jeers shouting her down.

“Perhaps not impossible,” said Athos. “I have spoken to Baron de St Vincent today and he seemed open to change.”

“But you have yet to meet our master.” A despondent Albert shook his head. “The Comte de Laurent and his soldiers enjoy taking everything from us and leaving us to starve. What can we do to persuade a man such as that?”

“How many does he send at a time to collect taxes?” asked Porthos

“Ten. Sometimes up to a dozen,” replied the ostler.

“Then you can begin by withholding some of your payment,” said Porthos. “Just a few sous here and there. It won’t make much of a difference but it's a start.”

Encouraged by the show of support, Athos smiled at him. “And when the army come for supplies make sure you have a certain amount hidden. Give less and less each time,” he said. “It will be a small stand to make, but a stand nonetheless and in the meantime we shall talk to the people of other villages and the nobles from the area. I promise you that Anjou is ready for change.”

Left alone in peace to enjoy dinner on the house, Porthos looked up at Athos, shaking his head in disbelief. “How do you do it?” he asked in bewilderment. “You have me spouting your rebellious claptrap now.”

“Perhaps you are beginning to see that I am right.” Athos smiled at him, weary from the exhaustions of the day but mellow with it.

“Never,” growled Porthos, and yet as he drank deep from his tankard he began to wonder. Athos’ words were indeed making their mark, resonating deep within him to a part of his soul that had lain dormant for years. It was the resurrection of that small boy who had cried at the side of a communal grave for paupers, watching as his mother's lime white body was covered over with corpses rather than soil. She had deserved better. The army had been good to Porthos, but that had been down to Treville rather than the king. This new way of viewing the world was utterly confusing to him. 

“You’ve been quiet for at least a quarter of an hour,” said Athos. “It must be a record for you.” He paused. “Unless, without knowing it, I have offended you and have been given the cold shoulder again?”

“Not at all.” Porthos looked up to meet a pair of searching eyes. “I was thinking about my mother. She would have listened to you. She would have stood behind you and rallied to your words.” He paused. “I’d rather be like her than like my father.”

“She was treated badly by the slavers and by your father,” said Athos. “You both were.”

Their story had been a horrific one. To find out that his father, though claiming love, had rid himself of them in such a cruel way had given Porthos the determination to become a better man. “Give me time,” he said. “The Musketeers saved me and I will owe them my loyalty for the rest of my days.”

“I would never try to persuade you into something that makes you uncomfortable, my friend,” said Athos. “We are brothers and I have the utmost respect for you. I too owe the Musketeers a debt of gratitude. Without them I would be long dead.”

“Did you know that I suggested you should join our regiment the day I met you?” asked Porthos, unleashing a grin for the first time that evening.

“No,” said Athos, reaching for the jug of ale and then changing his mind at the last second.

Porthos took over and filled the cups anyway. “A good drink will do us no harm tonight. I think we’ve earned it,” he said. “Treville agreed with me about recruiting you. He said that he had made up his mind that you must become a Musketeer and would not take no for an answer.”

Athos’ smile was full of memories. “He was very determined.”

“Was that when you became closer?” No longer shy on on this subject, Porthos would have worded his question more directly had they been somewhere private. The table was in a quiet corner, but he had no intention of revealing someone else's secrets to the world.

Athos however seemed happy to talk openly. “When we became lovers?” He shook his head and took a drink. “No. All that was on hold for a long time. I was broken, no good to anyone.” He looked up at Porthos and held his gaze steadily. “You and Aramis put me back together as much as Treville did. Without you I would be a lost and lonely man, with only a death wish for company.”

“You were happy to spend time with us from the start,” said Porthos, thinking back fondly to those early days. “You may have been quiet, but you were content.”

“I had been starved of friendship all my life and you two were everything I had ever wanted.”

“As companions perhaps, but Treville was your love,” said Porthos.

“My love but not my lover. Not for several years.”

“You waited that long to be with him?” said Porthos, filled with sorrow that the two men had had such a short time together, especially with years of war keeping them apart near the end.

“We’d slept together previously,” confessed Athos. “When I was married.”

Porthos was taken aback by this. He imagined that Athos, of all people, would take his vows seriously.

“Have I shocked you?”

“A little,” admitted Porthos.

“It was not long after the events in Savoy,” explained Athos. “Treville had come to La Fère, distraught and wracked with guilt. My marriage was unhappy and we became solace for one another.” Athos frowned. “No, that makes it sound dreadful and it was not that at all. We finally accepted that hiding our feelings was an impossibility and that we needed each other in every way. We had two wonderful weeks together, and by the end of it I had made up my mind to leave La Fère and rejoin the army as my father had done. Only in my case it was to escape misery and become a Musketeer under Treville.”

“Under seems an appropriate choice of word,” chuckled Porthos. Silenced by a look he piped down.

Athos steepled his fingers. “You know how the rest of my life unfolded from that point onwards and so you are now privy to the full, unabridged version in which I have proven myself to be a dishonourable rat, in addition to being a drunkard and a murderer.”

“I know you to be anything but those things,” replied Porthos vehemently, an evangelist on this particular subject. “You’re an inspiration to us all, Athos, and I won’t have you putting yourself down in such a way.”


	4. Chapter 4

Le Coudray Macouard had never seen this much footfall in all its years of existence. Word was getting around and people were arriving in droves to hear, straight from the horse's mouth, about this quiet rebellion that was taking place.

Athos was happy to sit and talk, explaining to people all about his radical ideas on guardianship as opposed to ownership.

“The land is the land,” he said to a crowd that had gathered around him. “No one has the right to portion it out and distribute it as gifts to nobility.”

“But France belongs to the king,” shouted a burly man from the back of the group. “And the king is decreed by God.”

“Until some new general at the head of an army decides that he is now the chosen one and usurps the throne. Has God decided this, or is it all of man's doing?”

“It comes down to whoever has the biggest army,” supplied Porthos.

“Exactly.” Athos turned to him, his face alight with enthusiasm for his subject. “So it’s a power game.”

“And how does this help us?” asked the ostler, an ever present face at these meetings.

“Think about it carefully,” said Athos, leaning forward. “Who has the potential to muster the biggest army in France?”

“The king obviously,” shouted an old woman, removing the clay pipe from her mouth just long enough to speak.

Athos shook his head slowly. “You do,” he countered to cries of derision.

“Maman Farrand cannot field a full set of teeth, never mind an army,” called out one of the jokers.

“But what if every peasant in the country stands together?” suggested Athos. “What then? Surely that will be the biggest army of them all.”

Just then they were disturbed by the stable lad running into the taproom, struggling to catch his breath. “His Lordship’s men are coming and the tax collector is with them.”

Porthos automatically reached for his sword, but Athos stilled him with a hand. “This may be a battle we can win, but the war is what matters.” Raising his voice, he then spoke to the crowd. “You do as planned and simply pay them a little less than they ask for.”

The door to the tavern was flung open, wood splintering under the assault and in swaggered a group of soldiers.

“They don’t look very noble to me,” whispered Porthos. “I reckon his Lordship is recruiting thugs at the hirings.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “This is what happens when you can’t command loyalty within your own people.”

“Then the Comte de Laurent must be a right arse,” muttered Porthos. 

“I'm sure we’ll find out soon enough,” said Athos, approaching the newcomers. “How can we be of service?” he asked, addressing a small and rather wizened fellow at the head of the party.

Ignoring him, the old man sat at one of the tables and motioned for his soldiers to place a coffer on the floor at his side. Taking a ledger out of the box, he opened it and ran his finger down the column.

“Call the people in,” he said, looking up. “It’s time to pay dues.”

“You were here less than two months ago,” argued Albert.

“The Comte de Laurent has decreed that quarterly taxes are to be paid now,” replied the old man. “Any of you that do not wish to do so can return with us to the chateau and explain their reasoning to his Lordship.”

“From the whipping block,” added one of the soldiers, an unnatural smile on his face.

This was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain on others, Porthos knew with certainty. He would no doubt do it for free.

“You aren’t all from here,” said the tax collector, narrowing his eyes. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Are we not allowed to travel now?” asked Albert. “Are we to stay in our homes, awaiting your arrival?” He didn't seem quite such a genial host at this precise moment, with his fists balled and his feet planted, ready for action. Behind him the crowd grew restless.

“He didn't mean anything by it,” said Athos, doing his best to keep the peace. “Did you, sir?”

“An answer to the question, or I will have you all arrested.” The old man levelled his gaze at Athos and then Porthos. “The comte would like a word with you two gentlemen. Rabble rousing is not something we tolerate in this province.”

Reacting to this contentious choice of words, the ostler was first to throw a punch. He was not, by any means, the last. The scrap grew rapidly into a fierce fist fight and soon both Musketeers were drawing their swords and heading for the centre of the melée.

Porthos loved a good punch up. Head down he charged at a couple of Laurent’s biggest thugs, taking them on with fists and the butt of his cutlass. They were too poorly trained to waste blunting his blade.

From time to time, he looked over at Athos who was as animated as he had seen him in years. This bar room brawl was far from a glorious battle and yet his friend was fighting for a cause he believed in, putting heart and soul into every swing of his fists. A moment of hilarity came when he was pushed backwards against the bar by two burly mercenaries only to be saved by that elderly, pipe smoking woman who stunned his assailants senseless with a brandished keg of ale, still puffing away as she did so.

Porthos guffawed with laughter. “You ain’t gonna live that down any time soon,” he shouted across the taproom.

Deftly, Athos dealt with his groggy assailants and when he finally looked up there was a smirk on his face. “Mind your manners, or I’ll set Mother Farrand on you.”

The tax collector attempted to sneak away, dragging that coffer behind him, but he was waylaid at the splintered remains of the door by a very irate stable lad. The boy was slight and short and the old man soon got the better of him, but he was unable to retrieve the money chest and abandoned his prize, scuttling away into the darkness like a cockroach.

Soon after this, the lord's henchmen were bundled outside on their arses and ran for the safety of their horses, accompanied by loud jeering from the townsfolk. 

One riot then segued naturally into another, the second all about carousing and celebrations.

“That showed them,” said Albert, dusting off his hands in delight after instructing his cellar man, Claude, to haul up a dozen kegs from below.

“Rest assured, they will be back,” warned Athos.

He had the beginnings of a black eye and grazed knuckles, but other than that Porthos was relieved to see that he was unscathed. He himself had suffered a similar level of injury and adrenaline still flowed through his veins, masking all aches and pains. Victory in battle, no matter how small, was his drug of choice.

“And when they do return we give 'em what for, just like we did tonight,” he declared, to a chorus of cheers.

Athos sighed. “This was a mistake.”

“But it was a fun mistake,” said Porthos, slapping an arm down over his shoulders and pulling him close. “And don’t you dare say otherwise.”

“It was.” Athos could no longer restrain the smile that had been playing at the corners of his mouth since the fight had been won. “I cannot deny it.”

Barrels flowed with a constant river of ale. Tomorrow they would ready themselves for repercussions, but tonight was for celebrating.

\---

Tucking his hands behind his neck, Porthos lay on his back and gazed up at the ceiling, satisfied with everything about life. “Does this make us revolutionaries?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Hardly.” Athos rolled over onto his side to face him. “Brawlers and thieves at best. The kind of men we arrested regularly in Paris.”

Porthos met his gaze. “Not so,” he said. “There was purpose behind our actions.”

“Perhaps most villains turn to crime for a reason,” replied Athos and in the moonlight Porthos could see the faint shadow of a smirk. “I don’t recall ever asking them what cause they were fighting for when clapping them in irons.”

“I like hearing you talk,” said Porthos. “You have a really nice voice.”

“You’re drunk,” snorted Athos in amusement. 

“Nah.” Porthos grinned. “Pleasantly mellow.” He paused, content and yet still wanting. “Athos?”

Not even certain himself what he was asking, he darted forward until his lips made sudden contact with Athos' cheek. Frozen in the moment, he then heaved in a tremulous breath and opened his mouth, testing the bristled skin with the tip of his tongue, so different from that of a woman.

“Porthos!”

It was a muted word of warning, but one that Porthos couldn't pay heed to. His senses were full of Athos, warm and handsome in bed beside him, and he needed to get closer. Inching across, lips met lips and Athos jerked away stuttering in a breath, his body rigid with restraint. 

“No harm in a kiss between friends,” assured Porthos, folding him into a hug.

Just as he had done after killing Grimaud, Athos went limp in his arms, but this time he sighed and reached for Porthos’ mouth, opening up to him.

It was not the kind of kiss that Porthos had ever experienced before. Neither genteel nor gentle, it was a full on assault that was delightful in every way. He kissed harder in return, driving Athos back and investigating every inch of him. The push and pull of this was addictive, heat generated between the layers of sheets forcing them together rather than apart as they locked bodies and mouths and took pleasure in each other.

It was so good, too good. On fire now in every way, his hips arching involuntarily, Porthos reached down to attack the lacings of Athos’ braies and it was then that he came to his senses in a sudden and shocking moment of realisation.

“God no. We can’t do this.” Stilling in fear he turned his back on Athos, cowering, curling over on himself and wracked with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” said Athos in that elegant siren's voice. “Forgive me?”

“Of course,” muttered Porthos, ignoring the ache of longing. The apology should rightly have come from his lips, but in order to bring a swift end to this he would accept it and move on. 

Neither tossing nor turning, instead laying as motionless as a corpse and doing his best to feign sleep, Porthos ruminated over what had happened between them, trying his best to make sense of their moment of madness. He could simply pass it off as an animal need for release, but it had been more than that. It had _meant_ much more to him and anything else would be a lie.

He concluded with despair that forgetting was going to be far from easy. Kissing was something that he valued greatly. He loved to fuck and was good at it too, but he was not the kind of man to seduce with abandon and always chose his lovers wisely and seriously.

And what of forgiving? It was he that had made the first move, pulling Athos eagerly to him in bed. A kiss between friends he had called it, but this was no peck on the cheek, despite having started out that way. He recalled the salty taste of Athos’ skin, the flavour of his mouth, and shivered helplessly.

He tried forcing it to the back of his mind, but it was all he could think about, lurching violently between excruciating shame and guilty urges that must never be met. When he finally slept it was to a series of explicit dreams and he awoke in a foul mood, discarding those images with something akin to horror as he turned away from Athos.

The two friends were silent with each other during the first half of breakfast and it was Athos who was the one to give in.

“I have already apologised for what happened,” he said in a low voice. “Believe me when I say that you are not alone in your regret. It was not something I wanted and the best way forward is to never to speak of it again.”

“Then I suggest we stop speaking of it now,” snapped Porthos, getting up from the bench, his meal half finished on the table. “I’ve had enough.” The sentence had dual meaning.

A brisk walk calmed him down and once he’d achieved several miles of the forest he then sat beside the river and watched fish jumping up stream. To treat Athos, a man whose friendship he cherished, in such a way was appalling and he returned to the village hours later, determined to make things right. That single kiss had been blown out of all proportion and it was important to fix things between them before this friendship of theirs was irretrievably broken.

The sight that met his eyes was troubling. The square was deserted, but for a dozen or so unfamiliar horses tied up at the railings, and a ghostly calm had descended over the entire village. A soldier for all his adult life, Porthos knew that this wasn’t the time to act rashly. The tavern was the only place large enough to hold this amount of people and so, utilising his stealth, he approached the window, sword drawn ready. As expected the same mob of soldiers, that they had driven off before, were once again making their presence felt, but this time with a few extras along for the ride.

“Where is your friend?” the ringleader asked Athos.

“He is gone,” said Athos with a nonchalant shrug. “To Angers perhaps. If you ride fast enough you might have a hope of catching him. I rather doubt it though as he’s an excellent horseman.”

“And you’re a rotten liar,” said the soldier who reminded Porthos of Lucien Grimaud, his rough accent and glowering, deep set eyes an unpleasant reminder of their last few months in Paris. They had all come close to death at his hands. Too many had been wrenched from them. “His horse is still in the stable. Don’t try playing us for fools.”

“If the cap fits,” said Athos, his eyebrow raised in amusement.

This earned him a fist to the jaw and as his head slammed back against the wall Porthos winced, fingers tightening around the hilt of his cutlass. He must choose his moment wisely. Athos could withstand a beating. He’d recently survived a festering wound and a poisoning and here he was, still strong, still defiant.

“Where is your friend?” The soldier landed a second punch, this time to Athos’ cheekbone.

The villagers were cowering from this show of strength, no sign of any budding revolutionaries in the building. Even the loudmouthed landlord Albert was keeping his eyes firmly fixed to the floor to avoid trouble. 

Jaw set in frustration, Porthos took a moment to think back to the people of Piñon: Remi the blacksmith, Bertrand the innkeeper and his daughter Jeanne who had been the ones to hold Athos to account for his inaction. They had been ready for change, learning to fight in order to take on Renard and his men. No wonder Athos believed in the potential of the common folk, for he had seen it in his own hometown and again in the resistance movement led by Sylvie. An unfortunate coincidence, Porthos was beginning to believe. Without the fuel of alcohol firing their bellies, the people of Le Coudray Macouard reminded him more of the rats living in the cellars of the Court. 

“I do not know,” replied Athos. “It is not a lie. He's not here and therefore he could be anywhere.”

“Search every house in the village,” ordered the ringleader, his lips twisted into an unpleasant grimace. “We must bring both men and the coffer back to the Comte or we will not get paid.”

“But Gallet, we have the money from the chest,” said one of the soldiers. “We could take that and go.”

This time that gloved fist connected with a much uglier face.

“Idiot,” snapped the boss. “How long will a few coppers last us? Do as I say and get to work.”

Despite his size, Porthos was a dab hand at keeping out of sight. Gallet had said that the stables had already been checked and so, after readying the horses, he waited in the shadows of the overhanging roof for the soldiers to clear out of the tavern and then entered the ramshackle building through its deserted kitchens. 

Just the leader, Gallet, remained behind to guard Athos. A bad move, thought Porthos, allowing himself a fleeting smile of satisfaction as he surveyed the tap room. Disaster struck when Albert caught sight of him and Porthos stilled, wondering what to do for the best. Expecting the alarm to be raised, he held his breath as the innkeeper spoke up:

“Would you like food and drink while you wait, sir.”

It was the perfect distraction and Porthos took full advantage of it, knocking Gallet unconscious with a sword butt to the temple and then quickly cutting Athos free from his bonds.

“You took your time,” said Athos.

“Well I was doing a spot of frogging down at the pond,” replied Porthos over his shoulder as he led the way out of the inn and across the yard to the stables.

“Wrong time of year,” smirked Athos.

“That’ll be why I was so long.” Porthos grinned and swung up into the saddle. “Fast as you can,” he advised unnecessarily, suffering a withering look from Athos which he supposed he had earned, despite the daring and successful rescue.

Sensing adventure, Athos’ horse reared and then set off at a speedy gallop with Porthos making up ground behind them. They were so close to being clear when a clamouring could be heard and afterwards came the searing, acid pain of a musket ball laying waste to the flesh of his arm.

“Fuck! I’ve been shot,” he yelped. 

Athos looked around in concern. “Can you keep going?”

“Course I bloody can,” growled Porthos, taking over the lead. “Just you watch me.”


	5. Chapter 5

A steady trickle of warmth was seeping its way through the linen of Porthos’ chemise, stiffening the fabric as it dried. Ignoring it, he charged through the woods, horse's hooves thundering across the firm ground, branches whipping his flesh, thorns catching at his clothes as he led them away from Le Coudray Macouard, determined to keep his promise and protect Athos at all costs. It was only when his vision began to blur and his head hung low that he became aware of a desperate need to rest.

“Porthos, stop,” cried Athos.

Taking no notice he galloped on, horse slowing to a canter and then whinnying as Athos veered into him and caught hold of the loose reins. 

“Do not ignore me, you fool,” he said, guiding them both into a clearing then helping Porthos down from the saddle and assisting him to a sitting position, back resting up against a tree trunk.

“Fool am I?” His vision still fuzzy, Porthos struggled to maintain a focus on Athos’ face but smiled regardless. “I remember a certain stubborn captain informing us that he had a spare arm, despite burning up from fever at the time. A fine example you are.”

“A fine example of a fool to be sure,” said Athos, holding a canteen to Porthos' lips and encouraging him to drink. “Do as I say and not as I do.” 

Once Porthos had assuaged his thirst, Athos then helped him off with the cloak and out of that blood soaked shirt. “Bite down on this,” he said, handing Porthos a heavy riding gauntlet. “I need to examine the wound.”

The leather was salty in his mouth, an ugly combination of horse sweat and dirt, but Porthos was grateful as the pain was intense and without it he would have cried out for sure, giving away their position.

Athos looked down at him, his expression troubled. “The musket ball is still inside,” he said. “From its trajectory, I’d hazard a guess that it’s lodged deep in the muscle up against the bone. The good news is that your arm does not appear to be fractured.”

“Don't worry. I’ve had worse,” said Porthos, trying to recall a time when that had actually been the case. He was a lucky blighter when it came to injuries, plus he’d always had Aramis at his side to sew him back together.

“I’m not a physician, but if that lead is not removed then the wound will likely fester,” Athos said in a steady voice.

The man was trying to keep himself calm, Porthos realised with a sudden lurch of fear. 

“We’ll rest here tonight and hopefully you’ll be well enough to ride for Paris tomorrow,” continued Athos. “We’ll get you to a surgeon as soon as we’re there.”

“I can ride now,” said Porthos defiantly.

“You can barely sit on the ground without falling over.” Athos shook his head as he tore a strip from the base of his own shirt then deftly bandaged the wound with it. That done, he helped Porthos on with his blood stained chemise then wrapped him in the warm cloak. “There is a stream nearby. Hopefully the water will be fresh and I’m sure I can find enough fruit to keep us going for now.”

“I have hardtack and brandy in my saddlebag,” said Porthos, trying to ignore the eerie ringing in his ears. “And a tinderbox.”

With the year now drawing to a close, the nights had been getting steadily colder and a fire would be essential.

Athos’ smile was wide and engaging, relief evident on his face. “Thank heavens you come prepared for everything.”

“It ain’t the heavens you should be thanking,” said Porthos, rolling over into his good side and using Athos’ balled up cloak as a pillow. “It’s my astounding foresight.”

“What a pity that you didn’t make use of it when that musket ball was winging its way in your direction,” replied Athos.

A hand came to rest momentarily on Porthos’ head and he took comfort from its presence. All too soon it was gone and he could hear the creak and crackle of twigs as Athos stood up.

“I’ll go and collect firewood and water,” he said. “I won't be long.”

“Be careful,” said Porthos, wishing fervently that he wasn’t failing in his duty. He had made it his mission to keep Athos safe and right now he was of no use whatsoever.

\---

Fever was the worst of all enemies, creeping up in the middle of the night and causing his body to turn to fire and his brain to a river that flowed with nonsense.

“Aramis will come for us. He’ll be worried.”

“No one knows where we are, Porthos. Be still, I need to examine your arm.”

Lying on the ground and looking upwards, Porthos saw the stars in all their glory with Athos looking down at him from the firmaments. “Keep talking,” he begged. “Your voice soothes me.”

“What I have to say will not,” replied Athos. “The wound is becoming putrid and I need to cut inside to remove the lead ball.”

Porthos inhaled fumes of liquor and the smell of hot steel. It reminded him of the forges inside the Court of Miracles. He became a child, running through the alleyways, pockets full of plunder and men chasing after him. Not the law though. They had their own law in that place.

“Bite down and lie still,” ordered Athos.

Once again Porthos’ mouth filled with the taste of old leather. Closing his eyes, he fought against his confusion and the agony, when it came, was a blessing as it stole his senses clean away.

\---

“I’m thirsty,” croaked Porthos, sitting up from his bed on the forest floor and looking around him with bleary eyes. His head ached and his throat was painfully dry. Another morning had dawned but which day it belonged to he had no idea.

“The brandy is gone,” said Athos dolefully. “But the water from the stream seems fresh enough.”

He fussed around Porthos, tending to his wound and feeding him biscuits and water. His features were haggard with worry and Porthos felt entirely responsible.

“I’m sorry,” he said, recalling the chain of events that had led them to this. “For everything. For what happened between us.”

“It was a reaction,” said Athos in that calm way of his. “I have been far too free with my words ever since we left Paris. We will do as promised and never speak of such things again.”

Porthos reached out with his good arm and let his fingers brush against bare skin. Athos jerked in response as if he’d been stung and then moved away, tidying their belongs and packing them into the saddlebags.

“Athos,” said Porthos, his voice cracking. “You did not corrupt me.”

“At very least, your arm has been corrupted,” replied Athos, his eyes never quite meeting Porthos’. “We’ll ride to St Vincent. The baron will give us shelter and I’m certain will allow me to send for a physician whilst we are under his roof.”

“We should head for Paris,” argued Porthos and then in a softer pitch. “I want to go home.” If he were to die from this injury then he did not want it to happen in an alien region of France. He would be buried on his own terms and in his own soil.

“You’ll never make the journey,” replied Athos, full of misgivings. “I will not have you lose an arm or worse over this.”

“Why do you always take blame for everything?” said Porthos, using the tree as a prop to help him to his feet. He felt sick, so badly off balance that he was likely to fall at any moment. He was dripping with sweat and shivering with fever. Standing for too long was not an option. “Get me into the saddle,” he growled in a fit of temper.

Athos booted him up. “I take blame for the things that are my fault,” he said.

“It was my choice to kiss you,” muttered Porthos. “My decision.” He paused for a moment, assessing his thoughts on the matter. “And I don’t regret it for a second.”

Athos looked startled. 

“If it hadn’t happened then I wouldn't have stormed off in a mood and right now we’d both be prisoners of the Comte de Laurent,” Porthos continued, summoning a smile.

“But at least then you wouldn’t be half dead from a festering musket wound,” said Athos as he mounted up. “We’ll go at a slow pace. I’ll guide you.”

The ground swimming before his eyes, Porthos clung to the mane of his horse and slumped over that arched neck. He was close to fainting, the whole world a blur. “I meant what I said. I don’t regret kissing you,” he murmured. “It was nice.”

“I’m certain we agreed not to talk about this,” said Athos. “Concentrate on staying seated rather than reliving mistakes of the past.”

“Was it a mistake for you?” asked Porthos.

“It was too soon,” said Athos. “Now please, for God's sake, hold your tongue.”

Porthos lost count of the number of times he swayed in the saddle and overbalanced. It was an embarrassment to be this poor at riding. In the end, Athos climbed up behind him and held him in place with an arm wrapped firmly around his waist. 

“Not long now,” he assured him. “Try to stay conscious for me.”

“I’ll do anything for you, Captain,” murmured Porthos, his mind wandering a little, the only certainty in life that of Athos sat staunchly behind him. “Tell me about Treville,” he added, wanting, with a growing level of desperation, to hear all the stories of Athos’ carefree youth before it was too late.

Athos huffed with quiet laughter. “I believe you’ve heard everything already -- at least everything I care to repeat,” he said. “On a similar subject, have I ever told you that I fancied myself to be in love with a statue that King Henry had presented to my father? I was like Pygmalion, though I had not carved Achilles myself.”

“I don’t know much about Pygmalion,” replied Porthos, his head lolling back against Athos’ shoulder.

“If you stay awake I'll tell you,” said Athos. “Would you prefer it in Latin or Greek?”

“Funny man,” growled Porthos, happy despite being wracked with pain and several types of confusion.

Before long, they arrived at the manor house of St Vincent and with the stable lad tending to their horses, Athos acted as a crutch, helping Porthos up the flight of broad, limestone steps.

“Is the baron at home,” he asked the housekeeper when the door opened ajar. “We are in urgent need of his assistance.”

The woman took in the bedraggled appearance of both men. “It would be better if you go elsewhere,” she said. “The master is not fond of strangers.”

“We are already known to him,” said Athos introducing them by name. “We have been attacked. My friend here is in desperate need of a place to rest and the attentions of a doctor.”

“Come in.” The housekeeper relented, her verging on sympathy. “Sit yourselves down while I have a word with his Lordship.”

To keep his brain from seizing up, Porthos counted the marble squares on floor. 

“How are you feeling?” asked Athos.

“Like shit,” said Porthos, managing a faint grin. “But I’ll hang on.”

“I should damn well hope so,” replied Athos. “I had to practice my nonexistent medical skills on you.” He shuddered dramatically. “Never again.”

“Actually, I am feeling a bit more with it,” said Porthos. “That’s a good sign, I reckon. Maybe you’re a better doctor than you think.”

Before long the housekeeper returned, bustling over to them in a matronly manner. “His Lordship says I am to offer you a room in the servants’ quarters. You may send for your physician.”

“We are most grateful,” said Athos, helping Porthos to his feet. “Let me,” he said in a low voice when he was met with resistance. “You may have the strength of Hercules, but you are not over the worst of this yet.”

They were led down a lower corridor in the east wing of the house. There was hardly any natural light at this subterranean level and Porthos struggled to see where to plant his feet.

“In here,” said the housekeeper, showing them through a doorway. “It’s not much.”

“It’s fine,” said Athos, taking off his cloak. Making use of pen and paper from the small desk at the corner of the room, he quickly scribbled a note. “Have this sent to Paris immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the housekeeper. “I'll instruct one of the maids to bring you water and a tray of food.”

Once she had gone, Porthos sank with relief onto the bed. Athos helped him off with his boots and then perched precariously on the edge of the mattress. He looked as thin and drawn as if he’d not slept for a week.

“Lie down,” insisted Porthos, his own eyelids falling closed. “You're safe enough here. I’m too exhausted to seduce you.”

“Porthos!”

It may have been a telling off but Porthos could hear the amusement in that voice. He patted the space next to him and smiled as the mattress shifted from the weight of another body.

It was a comfort to have Athos lying beside him. “I bet you’ve got a hundred more stories in your head,” he said. “Tell me about Hercules, seeing as you compare me to him so often.”

“Do I?” said Athos. He seemed surprised. “I had no idea I did so out loud.”

“Well you do and therefore you’re obliged to tell me about him,” murmured Porthos. “And not just the obvious stuff 'cause I know all that. I may not be an intellectual like you but I have some knowledge tucked away in here.” He tapped his temple for added effect.

Athos laughed again. “You know a lot more than you give yourself credit for,” he said and for a fleeting moment that hand was back on Porthos’ head, giving comfort and soothing that perpetual ache. “I am far from intellectual. In fact I’m a complete dunce at mathematics and science. I learned most of what I know from Treville. Not my first teacher, but definitely the best.”

Porthos fell in and out of sleep, the pain coming and going like the tide, Athos’ voice the murmur of a calm sea as he regaled him with tales of Hercules. Porthos felt increasingly inadequate, having failed at his first labour which was to keep Athos safe from harm.

“You are the one who has come to harm,” said Athos.

Startled, Porthos opened his eyes. “Was I talking?”

“Rambling mostly,” replied Athos, laying a wet cloth across Porthos’ brow. “There is food here. It’s good. Can you eat a little?”

“You know me; I can eat a lot,” said Porthos, sitting up and holding his head in place to prevent it from moving. The pain was excruciating and distracted somewhat from the agony of his arm.

“That’s it,” said Athos, taking a bowl of stew from the tray and holding a spoonful to Porthos’ lips. “Try some.”

To a healthy man it would probably be appetising fodder, but it churned in Porthos’ stomach and after three or four mouthfuls he turned away. It was bad enough to be spoon fed by Athos, but to suffer the indignity of throwing up over him would be too much. “I can’t,” he said shaking his head.

The next humiliation was caused by his need of the chamber pot when Athos had to hold the bowl and steady him as he pissed. They had helped each other in worse circumstances--what soldier hadn’t?--but this didn't make it any easier to bear.

“Far from Hercules now,” he muttered as he lay back down on the bed.

From his satchel Athos removed the book he had been reading during their recent adventures. “This is called Mythologies,” he said. “Let me read you a little:

 _Hercules, who subdued and destroyed monsters, bandits, and criminals, was justly famous and renowned for his great courage. His great and glorious reputation was worldwide, and so firmly entrenched that he'll always be remembered..._ ”

“Enough,” said Porthos, feeling inadequate in every way.

Athos soaked the strip of cloth once more and held it against Porthos’ overheated skin. “You go out of your way to look after everyone. You’ve saved us all countless times. You’ve saved France when all seemed lost. You even delivered Elodie's baby during a battle. You then took leave of the thing you love most in the world to accompany me on this badly thought out mission. You are more than worthy so don't ever deny it or I’ll be forced to thrash you.”

“In your dreams.” Porthos smiled up at Athos, hazy with sickness and yet filled with affection. “Thank you.”

This time the damp cloth was replaced by a brief kiss to the forehead.

“Sleep now. The physician will be here soon.”

\---

Porthos had no idea how much time had passed since he'd been lying in bed in this narrow cell of a room. Candles had been lit and snuffed out, meals came and went on a regular basis and his wound was frequently washed and dressed by Athos, the putridity having to be drained on one horrific occasion that left them both feeling sick to the stomach.

The loud ricochet of boot heels echoing down the corridor, brought with it the happy notion of escape from this claustrophobic sickroom--the physician must have arrived from Paris--but then Porthos looked around in consternation as he noticed Athos hurriedly loading his pistol and reaching for his sword.

“Not the doctor?” he queried, his own weapon brandished awkwardly in his right hand.

“I don’t believe so. I doubt he’d bring so many men with him,” replied Athos. “Best that we be prepared. How are you at wrong handed swordsmanship?”

“Let’s hope we don't have to find out,” said Porthos, wrapping his cloak around him as defence, fairly convinced that he’d be a poor warrior under such circumstances.

The door swung open and in marched the Baron de St Vincent, accompanied by two of his footmen, upon which Athos lowered his sword in relief. “We are most grateful for the kindness you have shown us, your Lordship.”

“Your feelings may soon change,” replied the baron, moving further into the room to allow the servants to rummage through their possessions. The satchel lay open on the dresser and St Vincent examined it, pulling out a handful of the pamphlets. He scanned through one of them, his face darkening with anger.

“It is only what we were talking about when we met previously,” said Athos. “You seemed agreeable to the idea then.”

“It is not what we were discussing. Far from it, in fact. Why would you ever think that I would support an army of people rising up against my own kind?” said St Vincent.

“We’re all people,” growled Porthos. “That’s the point we’re trying to make.”

“And there you have it. Treasonous filth spoken by a former guttersnipe,” said a new addition to the conversation. 

A man entered the room, bedecked in finery, his beaked nose held at a supercilious angle. He was accompanied by several familiar faces, none of which filled Porthos with happiness. Still bruised from their last encounter, Gallet was sneering at the reversal of fortune. 

“The Comte de Laurent, I presume,” said Athos in that lazy drawl, his eyes half shuttered as if he were entirely unfazed by the situation.

“Indeed,” said the nobleman. “And you, sir, are the Comte de la Fère. Rumours follow you around like flies on shit.”

“You need to show some more respect,” growled Porthos. Sick he might be, but he would not have Athos spoken to in this way. If he’d been at fighting fitness the man would have been laid out unconscious by now, aristocrat or not.

“What would you know of such matters?” said the comte, wheeling around to address him personally. “Porthos du Vallon: child of a slave and product of the slums. I make it my business to know my enemies.”

“Then you have failed dismally,” said Athos. “Porthos is the only son of the Marquis de Belgard.”

Laurent snorted in disgust. “Bastard son I presume and of little significance, except that it proves you are both traitors to your own kind.”

“Porthos has done nothing other than accompany me on my journey. Without question, he is loyal to the king and the queen regent,” said Athos.

“As if I give a damn what some Spanish Infanta thinks,” spat Laurent. “However I’m sure she has strong opinions about two former Musketeers who abandoned their regiment to preach sedition and provoke an uprising amongst the masses.”

“Think what you will of me,” said Athos urgently, “but do not hold Porthos accountable for my beliefs with which he strongly disagrees.”

As a matter of fact, Porthos no longer disagreed with them, but the uprising that was about to happen in Anjou was one which he could never support. The idea of the Comte de Laurent and his ilk seizing power from the house of Bourbon was unthinkable. When revolution came, these disloyal bastards would be the first to swing. He would see to it personally.

“None of this is of any interest to me,” said Laurent, folding the pamphlet into quarters and stowing it away in his pocket. “Chain them and bring them back to the castle,” he said, turning to address Gallet.

“A physician is on his way to tend to Porthos,” protested Athos. He looked to the baron for support but the young man would not meet anyone’s eyes. He had become another frightened rodent.

“Then they will miss each other in transit,” replied Laurent. “It is of no consequence. The gallows does not differentiate between the healthy and the sick. If anything, your friend is a lucky fellow. The noose will bring about a swift end to his suffering.”


	6. Chapter 6

Keeping quiet when incensed was not one of Porthos’ greatest skills, but so far he'd managed it to his satisfaction. Now, having been clapped in irons and loaded unceremoniously into the back of a cart, he put on the performance of his life, groaning in agony every time he was moved and feigning shivers to add to the theatre.

Holding his cloak around him Porthos rested in Athos’ arms, the other man volunteering himself as mattress to cushion the journey.

“I thought you were feeling better,” he murmured, his mouth pressed close to Porthos’ ear.

Porthos shifted around so that he too could speak without being overheard. “I still have a dagger at my hip.”

Laurent's men were not practised at guard duty and, as expected, the horsemen raced ahead with the comte, leaving the cart protected only by the driver and his mate.

Moving slowly, Athos fumbled beneath the heavy folds of Porthos’ cloak, removing the main gauche from its sheath. Using Porthos as shield he set about freeing himself, working the tip of the blade into the simplistic lock until the mechanism gave way with a soft clunk. As the chains fell free, Porthos let out a series of prolonged groans to muffle the noise.

“Keep your friend quiet back there,” ordered one of the guards, turning to glare at them from the bench seat in front. “He's whining like a suckling babe. So much for good slave stock.”

These turned out to be the final words of his life, silenced by a blade which slid neatly from ear to ear. 

The driver's eyes bulged as Porthos used the weight of his chains to throttle him. The pain had dulled down considerably during the last few days, but this effort was ripping apart freshly mended skin and he wasn’t certain how much longer he could keep going without losing consciousness.

As Athos took over, dispatching the second man as efficiently as the first and dumping him out of the cart, Porthos fell back onto the boards, heaving in deep breaths and wishing for a swig of liquor to dull his ringing nerves.

“Are you all right?” called Athos as he reined in the mules.

“Just dandy,” Porthos answered through gritted teeth.

“Hold on,” warned Athos. “I’m about to turn the cart around and it'll be a bumpy ride. Do you want to sit up front?”

“No time,” growled Porthos. “Unchain me and get us out of here, quick as you can.”

Wedged into a corner, his senses clearing by the second, Porthos kept a steady eye on the track behind them, expecting at any moment to see their enemies kicking up dust in the distance. 

As they came to a crossroads, Athos brought the mules to a halt. “Which way for the best,” he pondered. “I think we’ll take the north road for now and then double back on ourselves and head to Paris.”

“Sounds like a plan,” agreed Porthos. “Laurent assumes we won’t be welcomed home with open arms.”

“Wherever that is,” said Athos. “My home has only ever been with Treville.”

“Then we’d best find you a new one,” replied Porthos, settling in for the remainder of the journey.

“Get some sleep,” said Athos. “I need you to be well.”

On such a rough road it seemed an impossible task to achieve, but Porthos surprised himself, nodding off and then falling into a deep slumber. Ever since he was a small child, fever had always drained him of his resources.

He awoke to find himself in a farmyard, the mules drinking happily from a trough. In the distance he could see Athos at the farmhouse door, chatting to a middle aged woman and accepting a basket of goods from her.

Hopping down from the cart and stretching his legs, he was pleased to find that the dizziness had now gone. His arm was sore, but no longer throbbing and the signs were pointing to recovery. Slipping off his cloak, he let the autumn sun warm his bones, wishing he had some clothes to change into that weren’t blood soaked and reeking of sweat.

“You look a tad more healthy than you’ve done in a while,” remarked Athos when he returned, fitting a nosebag of oats onto the bridle of each horse.

“I feel it,” said Porthos, investigating the foodstuffs from the farmer’s wife. There was ham, chicken legs, cheese, a full loaf of bread and best of all wine. “How in god’s name did you sweet talk her into giving us all this?” Uncorking the bottle he put it to his lips. “It’s good,” he declared after a couple of mouthfuls, passing it over.

Athos declined with a shake of the head, removing the feed from chuntering mules. “I’ll wait until we find somewhere safe to rest for the night.”

“Laurent and his men’ll be long gone,” said Porthos, breathing in the alluring scent of warm bread. Placing the basket of provisions on the seat, he climbed up next to them, guarding them with an arm. “Those kind of thugs have no stamina for the chase, nor the kind of skill that's needed to hunt anyone down.”

“True as that might be, I’d rather err on the side of caution,” said Athos, climbing up and taking the reins. “I've done nothing but lead you into trouble these past few weeks.”

“It’s been an adventure,” agreed Porthos, his eyes lighting up with pleasure as he discovered freshly baked biscuits at the bottom of the basket. “Luckily, there’s nothing I love more.”

“You, my friend, are the best companion a man could have.” His lips tugging upwards into a half smile, Athos geed on the mules and drove the cart out of the farmyard.

They stopped for the night in a field that had been left as meadow for the season and was surrounded on all sides by high hedges. 

Laid flat, the tall grass made a comfortable bed and, using his cloak as a pillow, Porthos rested back and gazed up at the sky, at its prettiest in that golden hour before sunset. There was no hope of making a fire in this spot, but for now it was pleasant enough to lie here with a full belly and contemplate the mysteries of life.

“I need to see to your wound before the light fades any further,” said Athos, kneeling above Porthos and pulling the shirt over his head. 

It was the act of someone so familiar, something so unquestionably right, that Porthos’ heart stuttered in his chest. Cautiously, curiously, he watched Athos work, cleaning the wound and dressing it with fresh strips of bandage. 

“There is no sign of putridity returning. The skin has torn a little from your exertions, but it is still healing well.”

Athos’ smile may have been hidden beneath a thick growth of beard but it was both bright and easy, and it made Porthos happy just to look at him.

The nest of grass and double layer of woollen cloaks helped in part to ward off the cold, but before many hours had passed chills were setting in and Porthos was shivering uncontrollably.

“May I?” Athos asked, turning and wrapping an arm around Porthos’ waist. 

He was warm, comfortingly so, and Porthos answered the question by pushing back against him, arching like a cat into the curve of his body. The shared heat multiplied and spread over them like a blanket. Like this, cuddled up and content with the world, Porthos found that he could sleep and dreamt of a kiss, soft to the back of his neck.

It was still the dead of night when he was woken by a bladder that was aching for release. Making his way silently to the edge of the field he pissed in a heavy arc, hoping that he was not disturbing some poor hedgerow creature by flooding it out of its home. Following the trail of flattened grass back to their small camp, he wriggled into their makeshift bed. At some point Athos had rolled over in his sleep and now it was Porthos’ turn to spoon up against him, breathing in that musky male scent, his arm resting comfortably on Athos’ flank, nosing in to let his lips press against skin. Something had begun that night in Le Coudray Macouard, something that he wasn’t yet ready to let go of, and it was a revelation to discover that he was no longer frightened of his feelings. What was it that Athos had said of Treville? -- _A slow realisation that he was the one._ Pondering this for a while, Porthos drifted back off to sleep.

\---

The new day was heralded, in raucous fashion, by the arrival of a murder of crows, descending upon the wheat fields that surrounded them.

Awake and alert, Porthos stretched his fingers to the sky and breathed in good fresh air. It was something he loved having grown up in the fug of the Court.

“I am not certain what to do for the best,” admitted Athos as they ate a quick breakfast and then readied themselves for the next leg of the journey.

Porthos was somewhat taken aback, assuming from the direction they had been travelling in, that they were still on course for Paris. He was, however, a man full of empathy and he could see how troubled Athos was.

“Still lost?” he asked quietly, in truth a little disappointed by this. 

“Not lost so much as unsure,” replied Athos with a look of concern. “I’d like to stop off at La Fère for a while, unless being there will bother you too much?”

Porthos had only a vague recollection of the place. He had been taken there once before when he was wounded--when they were duty bound to protect that little shit, Emile Bonnaire--and it had been an unhappy mission, but he harboured no negative feelings towards the house itself. His rage had been entirely directed at the slaver and he had come to terms with that over the years. It was Athos he was worried about. La Fère had been the scene of a hastily carried out execution for which the man had never quite forgiven himself.

“If it’s all right by you, then it's all right by me,” said Porthos. “As long as I can have a bath when we’re there I’ll be happy.”

Athos smiled. “I’m certain that can be arranged, unless of course the locals have taken down the house stone by stone since I last visited.”

The journey there was tiresome. They had no money for food and nothing to barter with. Once the final crumbs of provender had been exhausted they had to rely on foraging the hedgerows and drinking from streams. 

Restless and aching, Porthos longed for something to occupy his mind. “We should have borrowed some decent horses from the farm,” he grumbled. “Riding would have been much quicker.”

“You’d have us be thieves as well as rebels?” Athos looked at him, his eyebrow raised.

Porthos wasn’t in the mood to be an object of amusement. “I said borrowed, didn't I?” He turned the tables on Athos. “That farmer’s wife would’ve gladly lent us a couple of old geldings. You had her twisted round your finger. She must have had a thing for your pretty green eyes.”

“Pretty are they?” teased Athos.

Porthos cuffed him playfully, forgetting himself and using his damaged arm. He yelped at the flare up of pain.

“Serves you right,” smirked Athos, bringing the cart to a halt. “Do you recognise our surroundings yet?”

Porthos studied the countryside in detail. Memories returned as he placed five Musketeers here at this crossroads, six years in the past, better days with hindsight. “I thought we’d lost you back then,” he said softly. Not in a physical sense, but Athos had detached from them all, Treville included.

“You were disappointed in me,” said Athos, looking down the lane that led to Piñon, which had been decorated by Autumn herself, overhung by boughs of russet leaves and speckled with an abundance of blackberries.

“In your behaviour, yes, but never you,” said Porthos. “Aramis and I knew you’d come to your senses. As for d'Artagnan, well you fell off your pedestal with a crash that day. Though, as I recall, he put you straight back on it afterwards.” For some reason he couldn't bring himself to mention the final member of their party. Fear of upset perhaps, although Athos had been entirely pragmatic on the subject so far, talking openly of his loss without being overwhelmed from it.

The subject of Treville may not have been addressed directly, but his ghost was very much present, riding beside them as they took the less travelled path that led to the Château la Fère, and as the house came into view, a spec on the horizon at first, looming larger as they approached, a shiver ran down Porthos’ spine. He was certain that he would be an intruder in this place that was filled with so many memories.

Athos, however, seemed blind to his discomfort, talking at ease about the last time he and Treville had visited here together.

“It was just before the war,” he explained. “The idea of being parted from each other under such circumstances was difficult for Jean to bear and he needed some quiet time to come to terms with it. The Musketeers were the king’s regiment by name but they belonged, in every way, to him. In addition to that, we had always spoken about riding into battle together. The greatest bond between men is forged when fighting side by side to defend one’s country. You know this as well as I do.”

Porthos nodded. He could still remember the exuberance he had felt when the Musketeers had finally been given orders to march against the Huguenots. The idea of fighting for the crown, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, was a fire that surpassed any fear of the unknown. It had turned out to be a bloody, muddy massacre, with limbs being blown off by cannon fire and corpses strewn around the battlefield, but it had been glorious.

“Soldiering is what I was put on this earth to do,” he said.

Having driven the cart around to the stables Athos brought the mules to a standstill and glanced sideways at Porthos. “You think so?” he asked. “I believe you have a far greater purpose than that.”

He was away before Porthos could interrogate him further, releasing the animals from their harnesses and leading them off to pasture where they could graze on the meadow grass and drink from the stream.

Left alone, Porthos tried and failed to parse meaning from Athos’ words. Giving up on this task, he turned to practical matters, collecting their few belongings, which amounted to an empty basket, a knife and two cloaks, then made his way to the rear of the house. 

Despite the fact that the front doors were fully boarded, the servants’ entrance was open, not even a single plank nailed across to deter unwanted visitors.

He hadn’t ventured as far as the kitchens on his previous visit and was surprised to find them in relatively good condition. They would once have been quite welcoming, he thought.

“Pretty cosy,” he said when Athos joined him, surprised to see a bed down here. “Was that for the cook?”

“Catherine was living here for a while,” explained Athos. “I imagine she chose to sleep near the range rather than heat the whole house.”

Porthos remembered a tall woman, gaunt faced and copper haired, full of anger at Athos for running away from his responsibilities. Even more furious when she found out that her old friend had given his land to the people of Piñon rather than to her.

“Where did she go?” he asked.

“I have no idea.” Athos shrugged and having taken a bottle and two glasses from a cupboard he then sat at the table. “I suppose I should care, but she and Thomas were determined to cause trouble. Without their interference perhaps Anne and I would have been happy.” He drifted off, his thoughts visibly turning to another. “Although I very much doubt it.” Wiping dust from the glasses he poured the liquor and handed a tot to Porthos. “I’m not certain whether we should be drinking to the past or the future.”

“How about a little of both,” said Porthos, knocking back the brandy in a single gulp. “I reckon you ought to show me around the rest of this grand house of yours.” He grinned. “Though I know already it ain’t a patch on my ancestral home.”

\---

With the range fired up and the copper in the scullery heating water for a bath, Porthos relaxed back in the fireside chair.

Athos had left an hour or so ago, riding to Piñon to scrounge for food, and he was alone for the first time since he’d been wounded. It had come as something of a surprise to him to discover how well he’d been looked after. For so many years Aramis had been a constant presence in his life, such a natural caregiver that he’d never had to rely on anyone else for support. Theirs was a friendship as strong as a marriage and yet their feelings for one another had never verged on romantic, the way they were heading with Athos.

Catching himself mid thought he fell into a panic. Having come to terms with the physical attraction and set it to one side, it had not dawned on him until now that this pull between them was anything more than sexual, and yet now that he explored it further the truth was undeniable. Pouring himself another brandy, he looked out of the window at the fading silhouette of a single tree on the skyline, considering the possibility of escape. The throb in his arm was gone, his head was clear and he would be safe enough travelling the relatively short distance back to Paris. It was a solution, but one which neither his heart nor his conscience would agree to, however practical it might seem.

A distant thud of hooves alerted him to Athos’ return and he made himself useful, lighting candles in the sconces then firing up a lantern.

Carrying it out to the courtyard, he met Athos at the stable doors, guiding him back to the house. “Were they glad to see you?” he asked, relieved that his moment of soul searching had not made things awkward between them once more.

“Indeed.” Athos’ lips tugged upwards as he followed Porthos into the kitchen. “Happy as always that this is just the usual fleeting visit. The last thing anyone wants is to have me living close by, treading on their toes.” He dumped saddlebags, stuffed to bulging seams, onto the table. “Luckily, this makes them extra generous in the short term.”

Porthos sorted through the provisions. “Pork fillet, potatoes, carrots,” he sighed in delight. “We’ll dine like kings.”

“Help me empty the copper,” said Athos. “First we bathe and then we eat.”

Three good arms were strong enough to fill the tub and within minutes Porthos was stripped naked and luxuriating in hot water. “S’good,” he moaned, the feeling bordering on orgasmic.

Athos laughed. “Keep your wound dry. I’ll be back in tick with some clothes. My father was a bigger man than I and some of his might come close to fitting you. Braies and chemise at least.”

Porthos couldn't have cared less about clobber. Right now he was determined never to leave this paradise and Athos returned to find him as fully immersed as he could manage.

“Didn't I tell you not to get your bad arm wet?”

“Forgot,” mumbled Porthos, his eyes closed in bliss. “Stop fussing. It’s practically healed.” He waved the offending limb at Athos. “Still hurts like a bugger though.”

“Can you manage to shave, or do you want me to help you?”

“You do it,” said Porthos, resting against the high metal back. “I trust you.”

What he had not considered, as he laid himself open, was the intimacy of this act. Seated on a chair and leaning over him, Athos trimmed away the wild beard and then began to skim the blade over soapy skin, shaving Porthos’ throat clean and carving out a neat goatee.

Heart making itself heard, Porthos found that he could not take his eyes off Athos and had to sneak a hand downwards to conceal his sudden reaction. 

“You look like your old self again,” said Athos, sitting back and admiring his work. “Now it’s my turn to bathe in your second hand water. Lucky me.” He immediately stood up and began to undress, leaving his laundry in a pile on the floor. “There are clean clothes warming by the range.”

Porthos climbed out, keeping his back turned as he dried himself off with a towel. He hoped this didn't seem too odd--he’d hate Athos to think he was uncomfortable in his presence--but his cock was near to full and a current source of embarrassment.

The splash of water assured him that Athos was safely in the bath and he hurried past to get dressed.

“Leave your shirt off,” came a voice. “I need to bandage that arm.”

“I thought we’d agreed you weren’t going to fuss,” said Porthos as he slipped into a pair of fine linen braies and some old military breeches that were tight but not impossible to wear.

“We agreed nothing,” responded Athos.

Decent now, Porthos sat in the chair next to the bathtub. He poured the last of the brandy into glasses and passed one to Athos. “We may as well finish the bottle.”

Athos gulped his down and handed it back. “Good thing there’s a well stocked wine cellar here,” he said with a cheeky grin.

I don’t know the half of you, thought Porthos as he watched Athos shave. But he wanted to, very much indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

They slept separately that night for the first time in months and although Porthos used the time productively, releasing some of that long build up of tension, he felt utterly miserable once his solitary act was over, turning onto his side, his thoughts full of Athos. Was his friend--an inadequate description nowadays--lying in bed and thinking of him also, he wondered. 

Sleep remained annoyingly elusive and he made up his mind, under cover of darkness, to confront Athos and confess his feelings. By sun up, however, he was shying away from the idea. They had thrashed this out already during the journey and Athos had told him then that he regretted their moment of intimacy. It would not be fair to bring it up again.

The need for restraint became even more apparent at breakfast, during which Athos was quieter than he had been in a long time, staring into his bowl of porridge then shovelling it down quickly and escaping the table with the excuse of feeding the mules. 

Porthos eventually joined him at the paddock rail. “I reckon that whatever you’re looking for isn’t going to be found here,” he said, sitting on the top bar of the gate and chewing the soft end of a stalk of grass.

Athos said nothing but climbed up beside him and they sat together in companionable silence for a long while.

“You thought you’d be living out your days with Treville,” added Porthos eventually, continuing the one-sided conversation.

This time Athos nodded, swinging one leg over the wooden bar and turning sideways to face him. “Stupid really, considering that we were soldiers, but I suppose a childlike belief in immortality and happy ever afters is what keeps us going.” He paused and looked out at the woods. “I know now that he’s gone for good.”

“No,” said Porthos, climbing down from the gate and holding a hand out to Athos. “Not at all. He’s still here in spirit. You’ve told me your story; now you can show me where it played out.” If this was his purpose then sobeit. It was as good a one as any.

“That way lies boredom,” said Athos, but there was a smile playing at the edge of his mouth as he jumped down from the gate.

This time, as they explored the house more thoroughly, Porthos was treated to additional snippets of Athos’ life. He’d lived a solitary existence at La Fère for his first few years, but had been happy and well looked after. He talked of music lessons, unveiling a harpsichord as he did do, and relaying the story of his first meeting with Treville which involved a bad tempered tutor and a broken willow switch. No wonder the man was a hero to him.

Each room held its own beauty but the long gallery was extraordinary, stretching out across the rear of the house, its valuable contents draped with dust sheets to protect them from the damaging gaze of the sun.

Athos tugged the cover from a statue, material pooling at its base, then ran a hand over the expanse of white marble that had been revealed. “My Achilles,” he said solemnly.

It was an impressive piece, silky smooth with every detail of musculature finely carved, and Porthos examined it in awe. 

“A hero made immortal,” said Athos. “Treville argued that he was Patroclus rather than this fellow, but I refused to accept it. I suppose now he was proved right. He was the one to be killed in battle and I have been left to mourn him.” He glanced at Porthos. “Alone but not abandoned, thanks to you.”

At the point of vowing lifelong devotion Porthos strode away, surveying his reflection in a vast, gilt edged mirror that hung above the fireplace. A foolish man looked back at him from the other side of the glass. He must sort his head out now -- return to Paris and marry Elodie, be a father to Marie Cessette and a general to the French army. His future was filled with promise if only he’d allow it to happen.

Athos joined him at the mantel, an index finger resting upon his upper lip as he too looked into the silvered surface. “It was here that I got my scar,” he said. “My fencing instructor was useless and Treville told him off for it in no uncertain terms.”

“What happened?” asked Porthos, happy to be distracted from the turmoil of his thoughts.

“He was angered by Treville's comments and he took it upon himself to prove what a good fighter he was. He swung carelessly with the blade and cut me on my mouth. Treville threw him out of the house.”

Porthos had often wondered where the scar had come from. “I bet he was furious,” he said, pushing away the memory of how soft that line of nude flesh had felt against his tongue. “Worried too, I should imagine.”

“He was,” said Athos and then he laughed. “But I was more than happy with my war wound. I was due to join the Guards at the next intake of cadets and I couldn't imagine anything better than arriving already scarred from battle. Strangely enough, I cannot recall the instructor's name, despite carrying a constant reminder of him.” He touched the scar once more.

For the first time ever Porthos was able to picture a young Athos, full of youthful exuberance and as proud as a peacock. “Bet you were a right handful back then,” he said. He’d almost had a handful of him once, his fingers fumbling with the laces of those braies. He wished now that his conscience had not intervened that night.

“Treville used to say exactly that.” Athos connected with Porthos through the divide of the looking glass. “Shall I show you the pond where we used to catch frogs?”

“I’d like that,” said Porthos, pleased with the way things were going despite waging a personal war with his feelings. On this mission to rediscover Treville, Athos was finding himself, years slipping away from him, the weight lifting from his shoulders now that the ghosts of the past were ready to be silenced. 

There was a distinct chill in the air today and before embarking on their walk they raided several armoires, hunting out warmer clothes to put on. 

“We’ll need to chop some wood for the fires tonight,” said Athos as they set out on foot across the fields.

“No hurry,” said Porthos, whistling as he strolled, and true enough this new world of theirs seemed timeless. It was hard to remember the hustle bustle of the garrison, or the recent wounding that had almost cost him his life. He would suffer that again to be here.

The dense woods were filled with the scent of autumn, fresh loam and damp moss heavy in his nostrils. It was quite beautiful, an ancient presence of nature that grounded him in every way. Dry leaves and small twigs crackled beneath his feet as he reached out and pulled blackberries from the bramble bushes, stuffing them greedily into his mouth.

“Such a child,” laughed Athos, following suit. 

Here they could play, ignoring the expectations of the world, unburden by common sense as they chased after one another, jumping over logs and darting in and out of the tree trunks.

“Ow,”yelped Porthos as his sleeve was snagged by thorns and he became a captive of the forest. Wary of tearing a shirt that didn’t belong to him, he tried to disentangle himself and was soon joined in his endeavours by Athos.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not at all,” replied Porthos as their fingers met amidst ropes of barbed vines. “I should have been more careful.”

With two of them working together he was soon released from his prison, although the shared glances, intermingled with brief moments of physical contact, did little to free his heart.

“The pond is over there,” said Athos, leading at a sedentary pace this time until they reached a glade, at the centre of which was a dark pool. “Mon dieu! It’s so overgrown. I haven't been back here in years.”

It was quite mystical, thought Porthos as he stood close to the edge and stared into its depths. The water was swamped by reeds, clogged up with weeds and lily pads, but it was still a lively place. Birds sang overhead, insects buzzed and once in a while silvery fish disturbed the surface.

“Don’t fall in,” warned Athos, a nostalgic smile on his face. “I did once when I was a child, leaning out too far in order to catch a frog. It was horribly cold as I recall.”

“Not a place for bathing,” agreed Porthos.

Once again Athos’ eyes lost focus. “No, there is somewhere better for that on the estate. Treville and I swam there a few times when the weather was too hot to bear in Paris.”

Porthos set his jaw, railing against the idea of a place that had been the site of such romantic liaisons. “Well it isn’t hot today so we don’t need to go there,” he said gruffly, hoping that his words didn’t sound too petulant. 

Hunkering down, he poked at the lily pads with a stick. A large frog hopped out from the reeds and disappeared again with a glug and a splosh. The surprise of it caused him to lose balance and he teetered, grateful for the hand that held him steady, pulling him back to safety and then patting him on the shoulder.

“I would have laughed if you had fallen in,” said Athos.

“As if you’d dare.” Porthos stood up, a teasing grin on his face. On this small peninsula of land, cut off from the rest by a fallen tree, there was barely room for two pairs of boots and they were forced close together. It was more comfortable than it ought to be. He slipped an arm around Athos’ waist, let his hand come to rest on a hip, fingertips drumming out a rhythm. He was significantly taller and Athos was far prettier than any man should be, green eyes sparking with amusement and a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. Would a kiss be out of the question? 

Sadly, Porthos deemed that it would and stepped clear of the danger zone. “Firewood needs seeing to,” he said brusquely. “You can chop the logs while I sort out dinner.”

He was halted by a determined grip. “Porthos, thank you,” said Athos in that mellow yet mesmerising voice, fingers clutching at his forearm. “I needed to do this. I’m glad that you are here with me.”

“Not a problem,” said Porthos, despite the fact that it was proving to be quite the opposite.

\---

The dinner he prepared for them that night was simple but a success. The remainder of the evening was then spent playing cards in front of a roaring fire in the library and when the game had concluded and the bottle of brandy was empty, they parted company at the top of the stairs. 

That earlier hint of romance between them had come as a stark warning to Porthos. His feelings, when he allowed them to surface, were as fierce as anything he’d ever experienced and it was essential that he kept them locked away. It had been just a few months since Treville's death and Athos was still grieving for his lost partner. Porthos was not ready to spoil a friendship and, if he were being honest with himself, was terrified at the idea of embarking on this kind of relationship with another man. He’d been nervous enough at the idea of sex, but love was a far more daunting proposition.

The country air proved to be a natural sedative and it was a pleasant surprise to fall asleep swiftly and remain undisturbed the entire night, free of those troublesome dreams that had been haunting him for weeks on end. 

Having enjoyed everything about the previous day, the two of them very much at ease with each other, it was an irritation to wake up to the sullen version of Athos, stone faced and lugubriously silent, at odds with the entire world.

“Perhaps we should head back to Paris,” said Porthos, when all other attempts at communication had failed.

Athos looked up at him startled. “No,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “Not yet. I'm not certain I'll ever be ready to go back there.” He reached out, rolling up the sleeve of Porthos’ shirt and examining the wound that was hidden beneath folds of material. “I have been remiss. I should have been bandaging this.”

“You can see for yourself that there’s no need,” replied Porthos, unusually short in manner. “You’re the one who’s suffering, and it irritates me-” He retracted his words. “No, quite frankly, it _upsets_ me that you’d rather remain silent than talk to me about what’s troubling you. I thought we were closer than that.”

“You know we are,” replied Athos earnestly. “Too close, if anything,” he added, his words so quiet that they were close to being inaudible.

“Don't be ridiculous,” snapped Porthos. “I hate it so bloody much when you shut me out.”

Athos walked over to the window of the drawing room and gazed out at that lone tree on top of the hill. “For the first time in years I dreamt of my wife,” he said. “I came here hoping to resurrect Treville, but instead my guilty conscience has resurfaced.” He turned and looked fixedly at a spot on the floor in front of the fireplace. “Anne killed my brother right here in this room.”

“She was a murderer and deserved what she got,” said Porthos without hesitation. It was true. What was the point of dredging up the unhappiness of the past? “Put it out of your mind.”

But stubborn as always, seemingly intent on reliving his nightmares, Athos left the room, striding through the house and out into the grounds with Porthos following close behind, annoyed with the man but refusing to leave him alone in this morbid state. Ever since he had known him, Athos had been prone to fits of despair, feeding his melancholia with long bouts of drinking that had caused even Treville to lose patience.

“This is where I hanged her,” he said once they had reached the summit of the hill. He was out of breath from the swift ascent and yet, in a complete turnaround from earlier, seemed desperate to talk, stumbling over words in his haste to spit them out. “Thomas’ body was still warm when I dragged her up here, the servants witness to my actions as I strung her from the branch and watched her die.”

“She killed your brother,” said Porthos, his hands on Athos’ shoulders, almost at the point of shaking him out of this fugue. “You had every right to do what you did.”

“You don't understand,” said Athos, unable to meet his gaze. “I did it out of selfishness. She knew about Treville and I. Thomas had seen us together and he’d told her that we were lovers.”

“So?” said Porthos, entirely unfazed by this. “As far as I can see it doesn't make a fuck’s worth of difference. She was still a murderer and you hanged her to protect Treville. I’d do the same for you any day.”

And so the truth was finally out. The wind picked up at his words, clouds chasing each other across the sky to the west, and as the sun shone down on them, bright and warm, it was enough of a sign for Porthos. Tilting his head, he leaned in an inch and then an inch further, asking careful permission before pressing his lips to Athos’ mouth. 

This kiss was as glorious as the first. Being here, out in the great wide world, uncaged him, releasing all those feelings that had been forced into submission. He pulled Athos closer, winding both arms tightly around him as he pressed his thigh in between spread legs and kissed him again with a wildness of spirit. It was so damn good that he growled with delight, cock full and heavy by now, urging him to go further. 

Athos answered that call, moaning into his mouth, tongue sliding against his, knees buckling as the blood flowed to other, more vital parts of his body. The moment grew into something immeasurably perfect, all that Porthos had dreamt of as he’d lain in bed, hand creeping down to touch himself. It was everything he’d ever wanted and then inexplicably it was gone, the beauty of it snatched away from him in a single word.

“No!” 

Porthos skittered back, ashamed of himself for causing trouble between them once more. The apology that followed was dreadful, shattering all of his hopes in two brief sentences.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a NSFW chapter. :) I'm sorry for vanishing, but I had big ishoos regarding my house buying saga which have now hopefully been resolved. This fic is finished and I'll post the rest before I move. <3

Athos strode away, back down the hill, and Porthos watched him go, full of blind hatred that was directed solely at himself. How could he have fallen so hopelessly in love with another man when just a few months ago he had been repulsed by the very idea of such a thing?

During quiet moments in bed, he’d reached for Athos in his imagination, stroking him as he stroked himself, exploring him with eager fingers and mouth. What would it be like to hold him, he’d wondered. To rub cock against cock then spend warm and wet together. 

If only there were a potion he could swallow as an antidote. A poultice the apothecary could mix to draw this poison out of his tormented body. Perhaps leeches would be the answer. He was too full of blood that thundered through him, making his heart ache and his cock swell unwanted.

“Not here.”

He was so broken, so weak and pathetic from love, that he hadn’t even noticed Athos’ return.

“What?” he asked, blinking against the sting of salt that was crystallising in the fierce sunshine.

“Not here,” repeated Athos, taking hold of Porthos’ hand and weaving their fingers into one as they began to walk, picking up pace as they went. “This is where Jean and I were together for the first time.”

“Oh,” said Porthos, still in shock. “Sorry.” He felt even worse for ruining a place that was of such importance. “It’s special to you.”

“It is,” said Athos and yet he was smiling rather than angry. “And I’d prefer it if somewhere else were special for us.”

Porthos stopped in his tracks, stubborn as an ass, hauling Athos back to meet him. There was a conversation that needed to be had and it wasn’t going to happen when they were charging like cavalry down a hillside, confusion raining down on them rather than cannon fire.

“You want me?” he asked, reaching out to rest a hand against Athos’ cheek.

“I do,” replied Athos solemnly. “More than I ought.” He kissed that palm as it passed by his mouth. “I never imagined I’d feel this way again. I came here hoping to silence it by bringing Treville back, but instead it seems I’ve fallen for you harder than ever.”

If his arms hadn't been as full as his overflowing heart then Porthos would have pinched himself to prove that he wasn’t dreaming. “You said it was too soon?”

“It is,” said Athos. “But there's little either of us can do about that.”

“We can wait,” said Porthos, determined to do things right this time. He’d believed himself to be in love before, but it had never felt like this. He would do anything for Athos. He’d wait an eternity if necessary.

Athos smiled and shook his head. “From that first innocent kiss, it took eight years for Treville and I to become lovers. We wasted another five and then five more were lost to war. I refuse to make the same mistake again. If you’ll have me then I am yours.”

Porthos glanced over his shoulder. They were far enough away from the summit now with all of its memories, good and bad, and he pushed Athos against the post and rail fence, taking his mouth in a blistering kiss that left no room for doubt. 

“How about we get as far as that bed in the kitchen?” he suggested, his voice gruff from a surfeit of emotion and a mountain of need.

“Perhaps my room instead,” Athos supplied.

“Filthy buggers,” chuckled Porthos. “Couldn’t wait to get each other naked, eh?”

“Stop causing trouble,” said Athos, his face tinged red.

“I’ve made you blush,” teased Porthos with a grin. After months of dancing around one another, with occasional fits of sniping thrown in, nothing was easier than this. He hadn’t a clue what would follow, but he was certain that it would be good.

“Wine?” suggested Athos as they swerved around a chicane of furniture in the kitchen on their way to the stairs. 

“Not now,” said Porthos, reaching for Athos, pulling his shirt untucked and fumbling with the buttons of his breeches. “We’ll have some afterwards, eh?” 

By the time they’d arrived at Athos’ bedroom door both men were in a state of dishabille. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” continued Porthos as he pushed Athos back onto the bed, removing boots and breeches in a flurry of movement.

“Then let me,” said Athos and rolling them over until he was on top, he undressed Porthos, kissing each sliver of skin as it was revealed. “I’ll show you,” he murmured, low and throaty. “Let me take care of you.”

His voice grew muffled as he moved over Porthos, tongue sweeping across planes of muscle as he deftly unfastened breeches and then braies, pushing them down with an eager hand.

“Beautiful,” he murmured prior to taking Porthos into his mouth, after which he stunned him into silence with a long drawn out sequence of languorous sucks to his cock.

Only Flea had ever gone down on him before and never like this. She had been more tentative at it, licking rather than swallowing, but Athos was a joy, humming with pleasure and taking him in deep, nose buried in the coarse nest of hair as his throat muscles contracted and he drew Porthos into him. 

The roughness of beard was an added thrill and Porthos cried out, tangling his fingers into Athos’ hair and using him until he was on the edge of delirium.

“Athos, please, yes” he begged, thrashing, bucking, holding on tight and fucking that mouth with abandon. “Oh christ.”

It was appropriate, he thought as he floated close to the borders of heaven with Athos drinking him down, licking him clean and then crawling happy into his arms.

Stunned more than ever, Porthos covered him with kisses, sliding a hand inside those braies for the first time and clasping a hand around Athos’ erection. It was the first time he’d touched another man and it felt surprisingly natural to do so. A cock was something he understood well, less of a mystery than the hidden folds of a woman.

“How did you and Treville fuck?” he asked, watching intently as slippery hard flesh slid through the circle of his palm. He was a cheeky man by nature and loved to see that look of reproval on Athos’ face. “Which of you did what?”

“It doesn't matter,” said Athos, raising an eyebrow. “You and I are new. We’ll find out what works best for us.”

If there could have been more reassuring words to hear at a moment like this then Porthos couldn’t think of them. Full of anticipation he moved over Athos, stripping away what remained of his clothing and exploring every inch of his body, kissing, licking, touching.

Having a cock in his mouth for the first time was an experience. To begin with he gagged, tense from nerves, and had to retreat, licking softly at the swollen head until Athos was writhing helplessly on the bed and he was ready to try again. More cautiously this time he took Athos inside, sucking at him, tasting the trickle of fluid--not quite the same flavour as his, he was surprised to note--and then pulling free at the last minute.

Sex with another man was a wonderful game of discovery, kissing with gentle swipes of tongue, cocks brushing and then rubbing as the excitement built to fever pitch.

“I reckon we’ll have to stay in bed forever,” growled Porthos as he reached downwards to squeeze them together in his fist.

“This bed?” asked Athos, his eyes huge, darker than Porthos had ever seen them.

“Any bed. Anywhere with you.” replied Porthos, letting go and then grinding himself against Athos, wet and slick, far better than the traditional kind of swordplay he was accustomed to at the garrison.

Athos arched upwards in agreement and smiled, so feline when he was stretched out and playful like this.

Porthos stroked him. “You’re pretty,” he breathed in amazement, hips thrusting as his whole body tensed ready. “So fucking lovely.”

Cock rigid against cock, he kissed Athos with boundless passion and held on tight for the ride as they melded into a perfect mess of sweat, come and love.

\---

“We should eat before we collapse,” smirked Athos as Porthos lay panting in his arms once more.

“And probably bathe,” replied Porthos, drawing his hand down Athos’ flank. They had lain in bed together before like this, his hand resting in a similarly intimate position. He had loved Athos then, though the concept of such a thing had been impossible to grasp.

“Without doubt,” said Athos, who was busy twisting Porthos’ hair into defined ringlets. 

“What will become of us?” asked Porthos, serious for the first time since they had been in bed.

“If we don’t eat we’ll die, and if we don’t wash then we’ll have no friends.” Athos' expression was deadpan, but his eyes were full of laughter.

“It was an honest question,” said Porthos as sternly as he could manage at this happy time.

“Then honestly I have no idea,” replied Athos, sweeping a hand back through his hair. “Take heart from the fact that Jean and I were lovers for a long time without anyone discovering our secret.”

“Aramis knew,” said Porthos.

“Aramis is Aramis -- the exception to every rule,” said Athos, throwing his leg over over Porthos’ middle and leaning forward to kiss him.

Porthos kissed back, his cock rising to the occasion once again. It nudged against Athos, seeking entry and Porthos fought his desire to push on in. “I want to have you,” he whispered against Athos’ lips. He’d always been tempted to fuck his lovers in the arse, but had never yet done so since the idea hadn’t exactly been welcomed. Did Athos enjoy that sort of thing? Would he if the roles were reversed?

“Later,” said Athos, pecking him on the lips. “There are many acts to be investigated, but before that happens I'm in need of nourishment.” He smirked. “And not the kind you provide me with.”

“There's plenty more of that on tap,” grinned Porthos. He hadn’t yet been prepared to try it himself, but he had made up his mind do so before long.

“A constant source of nutrition,” agreed Athos as he got up from the bed and pulled on his clothes. 

Porthos followed suit, sighing with contentment as he trailed after him down the stairs, his legs shaky from sex rather than fever. 

As the water in the copper heated slowly, the two men sat at the table, drinking wine and polishing off the leftovers from last night's supper.

“I intended to cook that pheasant for dinner,” said Porthos.

“I have no complaints,” replied Athos, biting into a cold chicken drumstick. “It’s a shame we can’t stay here and live like this forever.”

Porthos had been thinking along the same lines, although from a far more positive perspective. “I see no reason why we can’t,” he said. “Surely we can make it clear to Bertrand and the rest that we’ll have nothing to do with the running of Piñon?”

“But the people there will never be certain that I won’t intervene and, in addition to this, other towns will disregard the mayor and look to me instead. It simply won’t work.”

“Then we’ll return to Paris,” said Porthos, who, now that he was fully recovered and that his differences with Athos had been resolved, had something new on his mind. Something he would have thought of weeks ago had it not been for the distractions.

“I’d rather not,” replied Athos, refilling their glasses. “There are plenty of other cities in the world if you are keen on the idea of a busy life.”

“But we’re needed in Paris.” insisted Porthos, his hands seeking out Athos’ in placatory fashion. “We must warn them of that potential uprising in Anjou.”

“No,” said Athos, his voice raised in anger. “Absolutely not. The queen regent needs to address the problems of France herself. Sylvie has made plain the effects of war and a certain minister has been advising for years that high taxation only causes dissent.”

“If you mean Treville then say it,” snapped Porthos.

“Well then, yes,” replied Athos. “Of course I am talking about Treville. He was predicting this long before he was made first minister and so it is up to Anne to improve matters. I hope that Aramis continues to advise her as well as Treville once counselled Louis, and that, as their ties are so strong, she will choose to listen to him.” He swallowed his wine in a single gulp. “Go to Paris if you must, Porthos, but I am done with soldiering and all its cumulative nonsense.”

“And done with friendship it seems,” growled Porthos, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You’d turn your back on Aramis, leave his son in danger and the queen at the mercy of the nobles of Anjou, all because you’re fed up?”

“No,” retorted Athos. “Not because I’m fed up but because, much like you, they refuse to listen to common sense.”

“This is about Treville isn’t it?” said Porthos with a sudden flash of understanding.

Athos turned away, but Porthos had already seen the look of utter devastation on his face and knew that he was right.

“He gave the royal family everything,” said Athos bitterly. “They destroyed him time and time again with no thought of the consequences, and yet even at the end he died trying to keep them safe.” Sadness took over as the lead emotion of all that were warring within him. “Because it was his duty to serve France.”

“I once knew another soldier who believed much the same thing,” chided Porthos gently.

“And he was mistaken and a fool to himself,” said Athos.

The period of mourning was far from over, Porthos realised with a heavy heart. He loved Athos, but Athos in turn loved two men, one very much alive and the other, ‘though dead, up on a pedestal where no one could touch him.

Porthos could not abandon him when he was needed so badly. Paris would wait. The nobles were notoriously slow at raising a single army, let alone amalgamating them into a full scale uprising against the crown.

“I _will_ go to the palace,” he said, taking hold of Athos' hand. “But not yet. There are far more important things to be achieved right here. Lessons to be learned. Fights to be resolved.”

“We’ll never fight,” said Athos, holding his gaze. “We’ll quarrel, but we’ll always make up.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Porthos, leaning in for a tender kiss that escalated until the steam from the scullery forced them apart, the need for a bath, for once, overriding the need for each other.

If the tub were a little bigger then they would have shared. Instead they had to take turns, Athos having the luxury of being first into the water this time.

“Can I shave you?” asked Porthos.

Athos looked at him in askance. “I have two fit arms. There is really no need.”

“I'd like to,” replied Porthos.

Shrugging, Athos lay back and closed his eyes. “Shave away,” he said. “But if you cut my throat then please make a proper job of it. I don’t want to be left with any more untidy scars than I have already.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Porthos, working soap to a lather and smoothing it over Athos’ face. His arm was mended well enough now for tasks such as these, and as he cut away the excess hairs, it was as if he was stripping himself raw. “I love you.” It felt good to say it aloud.

“And I you,” replied Athos, opening his eyes wide. “Although what Aramis and d’Artagnan would make of it I have no idea.”

“Aramis will be happy for us,” said Porthos, rinsing away the soap from Athos’ face and kissing him briefly on the lips. “But I doubt whether the pup will be as overjoyed at the news.”

Athos laughed. “You’re probably right. We’d best keep it to ourselves.” He stroked a hand over his face and then moved it downwards to curl around his cock which was bobbing in the water, full and thick. “You have a dangerous effect on me.”

“I was in the same state when you first shaved me,” said Porthos, slipping his hand beneath the surface and delving in between Athos' legs. “I had to run.”

“I wondered why you were in such a hurry to get dressed.” Athos spread his legs wider allowing Porthos room to explore.

“I was raging hard and ready to go,” chuckled Porthos.

Athos pushed suggestively against his fingers and then stood up, a wave of water splashing into the floor. “Your turn,” he said. “Don’t want the bath to go cold.”

All of a sudden he seemed to withdraw. 

“You all right?” asked Porthos, concerned by this odd change in attitude.

“I am indeed,” said Athos. “You get washed and I’ll make up the fire in the bedroom.”

Porthos was far from convinced by these words and after a quick bath, he dried and dressed then went off in search of Athos who was, as he had suggested, in the bedroom but was sitting at the desk rather than in front of the hearth.

“What's troubling you?” said Porthos, coming over to rest his hands on Athos’ shoulders. “Don’t bother denying it because I’ll wring it out of you eventually.”

“Sounds enjoyable,” smirked Athos.

“Athos!” warned Porthos. “I’ve told you before how much I hate it when you shut me out.”

“I’m not,” said Athos. Slowly he reached out and a spring loaded drawer emerged from its hiding place at one side of the desk. “I was actually thinking how good it was that you and I can be so free with each other.”

Reaching inside the secret compartment he took out a stack of letters. “I loved Treville. I would occasionally tell him so and he would return the sentiment, but opportunities to be together for any amount of time were rare and we had to be restrained with each other throughout most of our lives.”

“You were his subordinate,” said Porthos. “He was your father's friend. It’s nothing like us. You and I have grown together as equals.”

Athos nodded. “The dynamic is very different, I agree.” He read through the letters and passed them over, one by one.

Not fond of invading anyone’s privacy Porthos scanned through them gingerly at first, relieved to discover that they were far from romantic in nature and were instead made up of fatherly advice and descriptions of Treville's life. He then settled down to read each one in depth, eager to hear Treville's voice once more, resolute and passionate as always.

“He told me that he’d kept every one of mine also,” said Athos. “He was worried that simply holding on to them would be incriminating, even though they were entirely innocent.”

By now Porthos could understand now the sudden change of mood, but he would not allow it to turn into wallowing. “And what about the ones you wrote to him from the Spanish front?” he asked. “What were they like?”

“Still innocent.” Athos smiled. “Though feelings were implicit if one read between the lines.”

“You see?” said Porthos, taking him by the hands then pulling him up from the chair and into his arms. “The letters are no indicator of what you were to one another.” He pressed a fingertip to Athos’ heart and then to his temple. “The truth is inside you. Nothing to do with scribbles on a sheet of paper. If you forced me to write to you it would mostly be about sword fighting and what I’d had for dinner. Doesn't mean I don’t love you.”

“Personally I think you’d write a very good letter,” said Athos, after they’d shared a lengthy kiss. “You have a way with words.”

“Let’s hope we never have to find out,” said Porthos, kissing him again.

\---

Being in bed with Athos reminded Porthos of his early years with Flea. Whilst the two were very different in nature, they shared an intensity of passion and an addiction to pleasure that was limitless. Athos was a skillful lover and a patient teacher. He had to be because much of this was new to Porthos who had never before imagined that a tongue could have so many uses, some of which seemed outlandish until experiencing them firsthand. Unlike Aramis, he’d never visited the whorehouses for a spot of creative fun. The kind of women he went with were usually genteel widows who enjoyed having sex with a virile young soldier but were not the type to experiment. 

The first time he fucked Athos was a revelation. The man was immeasurably tight, coiling around him like a sleeve of hot muscle, and it took a huge amount of self control not to spend immediately. The biggest surprise of all was how much pleasure Athos gained from being penetrated. Each thrust excited him more. He would contort his body and cry out when the angle was just so, placing Porthos’ hand on his cock and coming hard which inevitably triggered Porthos’ own orgasm, leaving him gratified, spent and a trifle baffled.

“Surely it must hurt,” he asked once. 

“A little,” said Athos with a grin. “But it’s a damn good pain.”

Porthos’ first instinct was one of curiosity, but then worries pushed their way to the fore and he tamped down that urge to find out for himself. It was the act of a sissy, his conscience informed him. Illogically, because he had never once thought this of Athos, being penetrated seemed to him to be a kind of emasculation. He was terrified of turning into one of those mewling sodomites who prowled the streets of Beaubourg.

“You’ve taken me over,” said Athos with a slight frown. “I’m finding it harder and harder to remember what it was like to be with Treville.”

This was puzzling, but in its own way reassuring and it was not long afterwards, when they had both recovered their energy, that Porthos pushed his own boundaries a little further, taking Athos into his mouth at the same time that Athos was going down on him. They curled around each other, giving and taking, each suck pushing Porthos to thrilling new heights as he spent into Athos throat and felt the answering swell and shudder of Athos’ body. This time he didn't retreat from it and, caught in the moment, he sucked Athos off, drinking him down in salty sweet mouthfuls as part of a perfect circle.


	9. Chapter 9

Time passed, the trees stripped bare by Autumn gales and the grounds covered in a crisp, brown carpet. Porthos had never been more content, pottering around the house, preparing food and keeping the fires alight, leaving Athos to his books. He seemed tired a lot of the time and needed to rest whereas Porthos, newly healthy and happy, was brimming over with energy.

On occasion they practised with swords from the armoury, but more frequently they took walks together around the countryside, stopping often to find time for each other. It was an adventure, different to making love in bed, and Porthos felt alive from the feel of cold grass against his bare skin.

“Did you and Treville fuck outside a lot?” said Porthos, smoothing Athos’ hair with rhythmic sweeps of a hand as they lay together in a post coital stupor beneath one of the willow trees on the river bank. “I know that your first time was like this.”

“Was it?” Athos frowned. “I suppose it may have been. Honestly, Porthos, do you have to bring up the subject all the damn time?”

Porthos was slightly offended by this outburst. “I thought talking about him would help is all. No need to get shirty with me.”

“I’m not. I’m sorry,” said Athos, taking hold of a hand and kissing its knuckles. “That was a different life and it seems so far away now.” 

He yawned like a sleepy cat and Porthos instantly cheered up. “I’ve knackered you out again,” he chuckled. “Shall we go-” He almost said home. “Shall we go and have some dinner? The stew should be ready by now.”

\---

Driving back from Piñon, having purchased enough supplies to keep them going for another month, Porthos looked sideways at Athos and grinned. “I think the folks there are wondering if we’re ever going to leave.”

“Why should we?” said Athos.

“You’ve changed your tune a bit,” said Porthos in surprise. “Just weeks ago you reckoned you weren’t planning on staying here much longer. What happened?”

“I have no idea,” replied Athos. “Why would I want to leave?”

“So that Bertrand can get on with being mayor?” said Porthos, frowning when Athos shrugged dismissively. Something felt off, although he couldn't pinpoint the exact problem. Athos had not been himself for a while, hiding away from the world and spending most of his time in the library. Porthos assumed that it was part of the grieving process--a modicum of guilt setting in at finding happiness so soon after Treville's death--but he was beginning to wonder.

After unloading the cart and stabling the mules, they sat together in the kitchen and Porthos dared once again to broach the subject that had been preying on his mind.

“I reckon it's time we headed back to Paris,” he said, pouring them a drink. “I need to have a word with Aramis and the queen about the situation in Anjou. If that kind of sentiment is building there then it’ll be the same in other parts of the country. I must warn them before it's too late.”

The result of this was sudden and shocking. Porthos had only ever seen Athos in a true rage once before, spitting with fury in the courtroom at Cardinal Richelieu’s vindictive treatment of an innocent noblewoman. Back then his anger was justified but now it was not.

“No, damn you,” he shouted and before Porthos could stop him he’d picked up the half empty bottle of wine and had thrown it at the wall. Burgundy dripped down like blood, fragments of glass sparkling in an end of day burst of sunshine, and Porthos felt sick.

“Are you drunk?” he asked incredulously. “You must be drunk to behave in such a way. That bottle missed me by half an inch.”

Athos rested his head in his hands. “This is the first I’ve had today.”

“And the last if that’s how it's starting to affect you,” growled Porthos.

Was it the wine sickness, he wondered. Athos was indeed looking shaky and distressed. An excess of alcohol could have a profound effect on a person, including memory loss and fatigue, but this did not make sense as he had been drinking less rather than more these past few months. 

“Come here,” he said, standing up and pulling Athos into his arms. “All’s forgiven, love. Damn, you really have got the shakes. Perhaps you’re coming down with something.” There was no sign of fever, but he was struggling to remain on his feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“I don’t feel ill,” replied Athos. “But I am utterly exhausted,” he volunteered a beat later.

“Then bed's the best place for you,” said Porthos, helping him up the stairs.

\---

Over the next few days Athos’ health deteriorated, but not in the way that Porthos expected. Rather than developing a cough or a sickness of the stomach he became more confused, fiercely angry at times, lashing out but unable to cause harm because of the ever increasing weakness of his body.

“I'm calling for a physician,” said Porthos, having reached the end of his tether. “What's the name of the one you use in Paris?”

“You will not,” raged Athos. “I refuse.”

“You can’t go on like this and neither can I,” said Porthos, holding Athos to him, partly in restraint, but mostly out of love. “You have to see someone.”

“Please don't,” begged Athos. “I’m fine. I just need to rest.”

As the days darkened so did life at La Fère. At best Athos was in a torpor, at worst he was frighteningly close to madness and, at his wit’s end, Porthos fell into a state of panic. He couldn’t send for anyone when he did not have a name to go by. Athos was not in a fit state to cope with a lengthy journey and so they were stuck fast, paradise turning to prison. There was only one solution he could think of and so after wrapping Athos up and dosing him with brandy as a sedative they drove to Piñon.

“He’s unwell,” said Porthos as he arranged with Bertrand for a rider to be sent south with a message. “I have no idea what’s wrong with him.” He glanced over to where Athos was sat on the bench seat of the cart, staring vacantly ahead of him. “Does lunacy run in the family?”

Bertrand looked shocked. “No sir, not that I know of. Maybe you should take him to see Mme Jaccard. She’s old and her own mind is mostly gone, but she’ll remember her young master.”

“I can’t see how that'll help,” said Porthos. Paying visits was not on his to do list for the afternoon. 

“She was housekeeper at the chateau for many years. She knows the family better than anyone. She can tell you a lot more than I can. She lives in the house opposite Remi's forge.”

“Thank you,” said Porthos. “I suppose it's worth a go.”

By now willing to try anything, he drove the cart to the far end of town, alighting outside the cottage and helping Athos down.

“We’ve come to see an old friend of yours,” he said. “She's none too sprightly from the sound of things so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that bad temper of yours in check.” 

Leaning on his arm for support, Athos barely registered his words. 

“I really can’t see that there's much point to this,” Porthos muttered to himself, rattling the iron knocker fiercely enough to gain attention.

Within a minute or two he could hear shuffling footsteps, accompanied by the distinctive tap of a cane on the floorboards, and felt immediately guilty. “Bonjour, Madame,” he said when the door opened to reveal its ancient owner, her face wrinkled like an old apple, eyes clouded with confusion as she stared at Porthos. The bafflement cleared the moment she looked to his left and caught sight of Athos.

“Master Olivier, you are safe. They told me it was true, but I didn't dare believe it. Come in,” she said opening the door wide to welcome them. “Please come in.”

Despite the fact that she was a stranger to him, Porthos found it a joy to see the years drop away from her.

“I’m afraid he’s not well,” he explained when Athos failed to respond. “He’s been sick this past month and is getting worse.”

“M Treville will look after him,” said the old lady with confidence. “He’s a good man. He takes care of the master when I am unable to do so.”

“Unfortunately he died several months ago,” said Porthos, hating to impart this sad piece of news. The old lady clearly held Treville in high esteem, as had been the case amongst all who had known him, even those who considered themselves to be his enemy. He had been a quiet man by nature, but had touched the hearts of many during his short time on this earth.

“Oh my dear soul,” said Mme Jaccard, leaning forward to study Athos more closely with squinted, rheumy eyes. “What will become of you now?”

“Mme Jaccard?” Athos’ eyes opened wide as he recognised her and perhaps this should have become as a relief to Porthos but it was in fact the opposite of this. Athos was no longer the trusted soldier and stalwart companion that he had fallen for. In his place was someone new, a smaller man who was frightened by this strange world in which he now found himself.

“Yes, my poor boy,” she crooned, patting him on the hand. “M Treville here will see you right. Would you gentlemen like some supper? You must be cold after riding out all day. I’ll send in Louise with a tray.”

She may have been battling senility, but her affection for Athos was unfaltering. “Mme Jaccard,” said Porthos in his most soothing voice. “You know the de la Fères better than anyone. Is there illness in the family?” Anything that could explain Athos’ decline would hopefully be the key to his recovery.

“Only the drink,” said Mme Jaccard. She focused again on Athos, turning strict. “You are too much like your grandfather, hiding your sadness and supping from the bottle all day and all night.” She frowned. “I knew that woman was trouble from the day I set eyes on her. Sixteen years old, my arse. She was a liar and a trickster. More to the point, she was never right for you.” She looked around her. “Where is master Thomas? It’s time for his lessons. His tutor will not tolerate tardiness. Thomas?”

“We must go,” said Porthos, at a loss as to what to say for the best. She could not help them and they, in return, could do nothing for her. 

By now Athos was grey with exhaustion, barely able to stand, and it was a struggle to get him down the path. The mules whinnied impatiently, picking up on Porthos’ mood, as keen to escape the cottage as he was. 

“You seemed pleased to see Mme Jaccard,” said Porthos as they were driving back to La Fère, surprised when there was an answer. All too often recently he had been talking to himself.

“She cared for me,” said Athos. “My mother was away a lot and she took her place. She will be gone soon and there will be no one left.”

“You’ll always have me,” said Porthos, wondering, when Athos glanced sideways at him, whether he was aware of their relationship. The pain from this was so intense that it felt as if he had been stabbed by the thrust of a sword. “And don't you forget it.” Do not forget me, he prayed silently.

\---

Petrified at the idea of being lost to Athos, Porthos spent the next few days fussing over him, leaving him only when it became necessary in order to make food and see to the mules. 

Athos himself was a shadow, disappearing into the structure of the house, either seated downstairs staring into space, or fast asleep in bed. His temper was gone, as was his every trace of his spirit. The disease may have progressed, but there were still no symptoms of any illness Porthos had encountered before. Athos’ lethargy was extreme and his memory was appalling. His muscles trembled as if he was withering and about to fade away.

Moments of lucidity came and went. At first Porthos tried to convince himself that they heralded the return of normality, but by now he accepted that they were cruel reminders of a happier time.

“I’d willingly give you up if I could have you back as you once were,” he said as he washed the sleep from Athos’ eyes with a flannel.

“Whereas I would never do so,” said Athos, that crooked smile lighting up a drawn face, his mouth tipping up at the corner. “You lack persistence.”

“I do,” said Porthos, leaning in close and pressing a kiss to that cool forehead. “I’ll try harder from now on.”

There were tears in his eyes as he encouraged Athos to get dressed and then helped him downstairs.

All too often he imagined the drumming of horses’ hooves, but this time, on looking out of the window, he was relieved to discover that this was no fantasy and that not one but two riders approached the house at a gallop.

Opening wide the twin elm doors, he welcomed his friends inside, hugging d’Artagnan and then hurling himself into Aramis’ arms, unable to let go.

“I was afraid that you would not be able to leave court,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

“I will always be here when you need me,” said Aramis, comforting him with a kiss to his forehead. 

D’Artagnan was more direct. “What is the matter? Where is Athos?”

“I’ll show you,” said Porthos grimly.

Athos was resting on one of the settees in the library, a blanket covering his legs and a book, fallen to the floor, unread.

“Athos?” said d’Artagnan, crouching beside his former mentor.

Athos blinked, uncertain as he invariably was these days, looking to Porthos for reassurance.

“D’Artagnan and Aramis have come to visit,” said Porthos at which Athos blinked again.

“How long has he been like this?” asked Aramis quietly.

“I first noticed that things were strange about a month ago,” replied Porthos. “But I’m pretty sure it started before then.”

Taking over from d’Artagnan, who had been trying in vain to elicit some kind of response from Athos, Aramis pulled up a chair and began to examine him.

“I am no physician” he said a few moments later, looking sharply up at Porthos. 

“I didn’t know who else to send for,” admitted Porthos, a trifle embarrassed by this fact. For the majority of his life he had relied solely on Aramis as far as medical matters were concerned. “Athos refused to tell me who his doctor was in Paris. I’m thinking with hindsight that he probably couldn't recall the man’s name. His memory is almost entirely gone.”

“His pulse is fast but he has no fever,” said Aramis, tucking Athos up under the blanket. “He’s cold to the touch and seems physically weak. His pupils are dilated and I can see that he is chronically fatigued.” Athos had fallen asleep without saying a word. “How is his appetite?”

“He eats if I feed him. He drinks if I offer it to him,” said Porthos with a shrug. “For a while he was suffering from violent outbursts of temper, but that has passed and lately he’s been like this most of the time.” Without thinking, he took hold of Athos’ hand, letting it drop as soon as he realised his mistake. As luck would have it d’Artagnan had already left the room to deal with the horses, but Aramis, however, was looking at him with those knowing brown eyes. “Occasionally he comes back and then he slips away again,” he continued.

“No diagnosis immediately comes to mind,” said Aramis. “But do not fret, chéri.” He looked around at the wall to ceiling shelves that were filled to their limits with books. “I am in the right place to research the matter. Go help d’Artagnan and leave me to my investigations.”


	10. Chapter 10

That night, having made beds up for his friends in two of the rooms in the west wing of the house, Porthos fought a battle with himself over where he should now sleep. Common sense told him that it would be best to retire to his own room, but his heart would not allow him to do so. He would stay with Athos and damn anyone who considered it odd behaviour. He was needed here.

Lying next to Athos filled him with sadness. He stretched out alongside him, remembering those few weeks of happiness and love. It had been a fulfilling time and he would never regret it. If Athos succumbed to his illness then he would treasure their brief relationship secretly. If he found a new love in the future then his first would never be forgotten. The many ifs added to his pain and he shed a few silent tears for the past.

“You’re sad,” came a voice, an oasis in the wilderness.

“I hate you being sick,” admitted Porthos. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

“You haven't,” replied Athos. “Not yet at least.”

Kissing followed on naturally from this, locked together in an embrace, mouths busy, hearts full. They would not take it any further. This was enough.

“Tell me more about your life here,” encouraged Porthos, sore from stubble burn and too worked up for more.

“It’s gone,” sighed Athos. “Everything’s gone.”

Even under these circumstances, sleeping with Athos came as easy as always and the sound of an unexpected voice in the bedroom had Porthos opening his eyes wide in shock.

“If d’Artagnan sees you together in this way then he may not be as accommodating as I am,” warned Aramis, standing above them, the light from the window turning him to silhouette. There was no denying how close they had become, the position in no way compromising and yet clear enough to paint a true picture of their relationship. “Most people are not, friend or otherwise.”

Ignoring him Porthos turned to Athos, hoping, as always, that a new day would bring with it good fortune. Athos, however, had slipped away once again to Lethe's embrace and Porthos kissed him on the forehead before disentangling himself. “A knock at the door is useful,” he said, trying to make light of the awkward situation.

“I apologise for intruding, chéri,” said Aramis, “but I was anxious to see how our patient was doing.”

“He’s much the same,” said Porthos, rubbing away some of the pain that had built up overnight in his left arm. “I’ll get him dressed and you can have a proper look at him downstairs.”

“I see you’ve also had a brush with danger,” said Aramis, sitting beside Porthos and rolling up the sleeve of his shirt in order to examine the newly healed skin beneath.

“I got shot,” said Porthos. “Athos looked after me.”

“You don’t owe him anything for doing so,” replied Aramis, satisfied that the wound was repaired.

“I owe him everything,” said Porthos in a low voice. “But not because of that. I can’t walk away from this, Aramis. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. He has hold of my heart.”

“And what of Treville?” said Aramis. “I find it hard to believe that Athos is ready to move on so quickly.”

“You have no idea what we’ve been through,” muttered Porthos, knowing full well that it was a feeble excuse.

“No, I don’t,” agreed Aramis. “You two are my dearest friends and I want nothing more than to see you both happy, but I worry that you are headed straight for disaster. Athos is a very sick man and you are entirely immersed in him.”

“You honestly expect me to step back now?” asked Porthos.

“No,” replied Aramis, “but I pray that you will be more careful than you have been so far.”

It was good advice and Porthos paid heed without resentment. Aramis understood, better than anyone alive, what it was like to fall for the wrong person and to remain loyal to them when all seemed lost.

\---

La Fère became weighed down by the low spirits of its occupants. D’Artagnan was distraught at seeing his hero brought to such a desperate state. He fussed over Athos constantly and Porthos suspected from the red rimmed eyes that he’d shed a succession of tears over him in private.

“Constance is with child,” the young man confessed one evening at the dinner table.

“That's wonderful news,” said Porthos, leaning forward and clapping him on the shoulder, overjoyed at having something to celebrate. He knew, from the time they had been trapped together at the mercy of Grimaud, how very much d’Artagnan was longing to be a father. Him too, although his need had since been assuaged by the sudden arrival of Marie Cessette.

“I had hoped that by coming to La Fère I could persuade Athos to return to the Musketeers,” said d’Artagnan, “but there is no one here to convince.”

Porthos fought to contain his temper and won by the skin of his teeth. “He’s still with us and he’ll be as excited as I am to hear about the baby. As soon as he’s well we’ll return to Paris.”

There was other news that he needed to impart, but for now he kept it to himself. If Aramis learned there was the slightest chance that the queen might be in danger then he would be by her side instantly and right now Athos needed him most. It may be selfish but it was a simple choice as far as Porthos was concerned.

“Have you come any closer to a diagnosis?” he asked as he tore his bread into chunks and dipped it in the soup. Later he would feed some to Athos and dab away the spillage from his chin.

Aramis shook his head, more downhearted than Porthos had ever seen him. “His symptoms do not resemble anything familiar to me. The library here has a vast array of textbooks, but it will take me at least a year to wade through them.”

“He doesn't have a bloody year,” snapped Porthos, pushing the bowl away from him until the liquid slopped out onto the table.

Aramis jerked upright. “But what if?” Leaning forward, he ladled soup from the tureen, letting it fall in a cascade.

“What if what?” demanded Porthos, bad tempered from frustration.

“What if Athos isn't actually ill in the conventional sense?” said Aramis, letting the spoon sink back into the bowl, enveloped by its contents. “We know that he was poisoned by Theresa.”

“From which he recovered ages ago,” said d’Artagnan. “I fail to see your point.”

“Emilie’s soup,” said Porthos, light dawning in a sudden flash of inspiration. “The effects of that built slowly over time.”

Aramis nodded. “What if the poison Theresa used on Athos had a delayed reaction as well as an immediate one? You said when we arrived that he had not been himself for quite some time.”

“We know that to be true,” interjected d’Artagnan. “The Athos of old would never have resigned his commission on a whim.”

Aramis jumped to his feet. “I must go back to my books. See if there’s any information to be found on slow acting poisons and their effects on the body.”

“And hopefully something about cures,” added Porthos, trying to suppress the sinking feeling in his belly. If Aramis’ suspicions proved to be correct then Athos had not been in his right mind for a long time.

\---

“I expect d'Artagnan would prefer to tell you this himself,” said Porthos as he fed Athos by spoon. “But he and Constance are having a child, due in the early part of next year, and they’ll need you to be fine, fit and ready for babysitting duties by then.” He lowered his voice. “As we are not going to have little ones of our own then we must become the best of uncles.”

“Godfathers,” said a voice from just outside the door. “Our child could do no better.”

D’Artagnan entered the room carrying with him another bowl and setting it down on the bedside table. “Aramis is half blind from reading, but his research has prompted him to devise this recipe. I’ve been into Piñon, begged around town for all the spare autumn greens and root vegetables and then cooked them together with some dry pulses. It’s not particularly tasty, but it is nutritious.”

Porthos’ head ached from a build up of intense pressure. D'Artagnan had overheard his words and had not misconstrued them, so why then wasn’t he furious?

“Is it a cure?” he asked, replacing one bowl with another and looking suspiciously down at the unappetising contents.

“Aramis describes it as a beginning,” said d'Artagnan. “He will be up later to talk to you about his findings.” He watched as Porthos helped Athos to mouthfuls of the leafy green concoction. “My immediate concern was that you were taking advantage of him, but I know now that this couldn't be further from the truth.”

Porthos stilled, spoon halfway along its journey. His hand began to tremble from nerves. “Athos once told me that he couldn't help what he was.”

“He cares so little about himself,” said d’Artagnan, taking a seat on the bed. “Which makes it all the more easy to care for him. I knew from the beginning that he and Treville were close. It was a strange situation, arriving in Paris wanting to kill him and have my feelings then alter so dramatically. I think it gave me an insight.”

A fresh pair of eyes, thought Porthos. The captain had been notoriously bad tempered during those dark days when Athos was locked up in the Châtelet and with the benefit of hindsight it was understandable. It must have been a horrific time for Treville and perhaps the worry had made him easier to read from an outsider’s perspective. 

“Athos was always uncomfortable around women. I swear he was terrified when the Comtesse de Larroque took a fancy to him.” D'Artagnan laughed and for the first time in weeks Porthos was able to join in with it. It had been truly amusing to watch him flail in her presence. 

“He was exactly the same with Sylvie,” continued d'Artagnan.

“To be fair, he had Treville,” said Porthos.

“And now he does not.” The young man grew sober. “But he has you and I am pleased of that. I understand because I was once in love with him too. It was never physical, a romantic friendship is how I'd best describe it, but my feelings for him were deep.”

“He _can_ hear you, you know,” muttered Porthos.

D’Artagnan smiled. “He knows already, I’m sure. I came damn close to telling him when we were in the armoury here at La Fère. I almost attempted a kiss that day. What an embarrassment!”

Porthos remembered his own embarrassment of a first kiss. Lack of physical attraction had not been the problem. “Thank you,” he said as he fed Athos the broth. “Hearing this does help, although what you said at the beginning of our conversation was wrong. I _have_ taken advantage of him, despite the fact I wasn’t aware that I was doing so.”

“You love him, do you not?” said d'Artagnan, a furrow of frown lines gathering between his eyes. 

“Yes, but it’s one sided,” replied Porthos. “How can he love me when he is out of his mind?”

“Do not sell either yourself or him short,” said d’Artagnan, standing up and squeezing Porthos on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you in peace and see to the horses. A farm boy’s work is never done.”

Once the broth was finished, Porthos put the bowl aside and offered Athos brandy from a horn beaker. He’d disposed of most of the glassware during his spate of violent temper tantrums.

“If you’ve heard any of the conversations that have been going on these past few days then you’ll know we are lucky to have such good men as brothers,” he said.

Sad as it might be, however, acceptance by Aramis and d’Artagnan didn’t alter the fact that this burgeoning relationship of theirs had unstable foundations, and, with a leaden heart, Porthos vowed to himself that if Athos recovered then he would do so with the remembrance that they had only ever been friends.

\---

“Porthos, how squeamish are you?” asked Aramis during one of his frequent visits to the sickroom.

Athos had been bed bound for several days, too weak now to get up, even with assistance. Determined that what little energy remaining should be used for healing purposes rather than physical exertions, Porthos had been keeping him awake, feeding him the stews that d’Artagnan cooked up on the range and talking to him about everything that came into his head -- with the exception of one obvious topic.

He considered Aramis’ question and shrugged. “I’m all right with most things,” he said. “Why?”

“The Roman physician Galen links memory to the brain and suggests that bloodletting will ease some of Athos’ symptoms,” explained Aramis. “It also seems logical that if he is suffering from a slow acting poison, as we suspect, then it will rid the body of those toxins.”

“Is that guesswork?” asked Porthos anxiously. Athos was weak enough already without unnecessary blood loss.

Aramis pushed the hair back from his forehead, worried and exhausted. “Conjecture with a little common sense thrown in.”

“Sounds a bit risky. I could try and find Theresa,” suggested Porthos as an alternative. “Get her to tell me what she used to make the poison.” After that he’d wring her fucking neck.

“I would say yes to this plan if we didn’t already know from Elodie that the village is gone.” Aramis sighed. “Porthos, we have nothing left to lose. Athos is getting progressively worse.”

Porthos nodded, dreading the idea, but at the same time unwilling to let his man fade away without putting up a fight on his behalf. 

A bowl was brought in and Aramis prepared Athos for the procedure, binding a tourniquet around his upper arm and then cutting into the vein with a scalpel.

“Hold his hand,” he advised Porthos. “Encourage him to squeeze yours. We need to release a significant amount and then feed him up with medicinal broth and brandy.”

The blood poured out, coagulating at the sides of the bowl, its metallic scent enough to make Porthos’ stomach roil as if he were at sea. He would stand firm, however, think of Athos being well again and try not to see this as his life force pooling into a porcelain dish.

“It will cause him no harm,” promised Aramis as he removed the tourniquet and bandaged the incision.

“How often will you do this?” asked Porthos.

“Once a day,” said Aramis. “I’m trying to remain faithful to Galen’s methods as much as possible.”

“He was an ancient Roman,” muttered Porthos. “What can he have known back then?”

“As much as we do today regarding the human body,” replied Aramis. “Though we’re far more advanced at geography and physics, if that’s any comfort.”

“Not particularly,” replied Porthos, letting go of Athos' hand and feeling its loss the instant he did so, that gossamer hold on life seeming more fragile than ever.


	11. Chapter 11

He dreamt of climbing a mountain, his fingers raw from scrabbling at the rocky outcrops to gain purchase. Falling to his death was inevitable and he was about to tumble to oblivion when something brought him around.

“Porthos.”

He had been sleeping on the floor of Athos’ bedroom for over a week, his muscles sore, bones aching from the cold, but to detach from Athos was essential and being in bed with him brought back too many memories.

“Porthos. You’re having a bad dream, I think.”

He must still be asleep. That voice belonged to Athos and therefore this could only be a dream within a dream, for it had been a long since the man had been lucid.

“Porthos!”

Awake now, he jumped to his feet at the insistent tone of voice and rushed to the bedside. The glow of the fire was sufficient to allow him to see a little and it appeared to be the case that Athos was sitting up, awake and talking. 

“What’s all this fuss about?” Porthos asked, breath catching in his throat, not yet able to believe the truth of what he was seeing. “It’s the middle of the bloody night.”

Lighting a candlestick with a taper, he covered it with the glass to diffuse the beam then placed it on the table beside the bed. 

“You’re the one making the fuss,” said Athos, that much missed smile playing at the edges of his mouth.“Going on about falling and other such nonsense.”

It was all Porthos could do not to take him in his arms and tell him how much he loved him. Instead he held Athos' hand loosely in his and checked for a pulse that was no longer racing. He needed to fetch Aramis, but dared not leave Athos alone for a moment in case he slipped away once more.

“Aramis,” he yelled at the top of his voice. “D’Artagnan! Aramis!”

“Our friends are here?” asked Athos, sinking back into the pillows, the palest of ghosts.

“They are indeed,” smiled Porthos, calling for them again at the top of his voice.

Athos grimaced. “I swear you’re the noisiest man alive. Will you ever change?”

Porthos would gladly change everything about himself if Athos asked it of him, but in contradiction to this he shook his head. “Not a chance,” he growled. A tumble of footsteps announced the arrival of the others and as soon as they appeared in the doorway Porthos told them the good news. “Athos is awake and seems better than he has been in a while.”

“Athos, my dear fellow,” said Aramis, sitting on the bed, dressed only in his basics. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” said Athos, looking around him in surprise. “I am at La Fère. How did this come about? Last I remember I was at the garrison and Treville-” He did not resume his sentence.

Porthos blinked back desolation. It was cruel to have memories returned in such a way. Cruel also to watch it happen to a loved one.

“See if you can take a little brandy,” said Aramis, holding the cup to his lips. “You’ve been a very sick man. We believe it has something to do with the poisoning, although we cannot be certain.”

“Aramis has been a marvel,” said Porthos, overwhelmed by this sudden turn of events, but not so much that he was convinced of Athos' recovery. He had been lucid on occasion before now.

“Is that ever in dispute?” said Athos, smiling through his pain.

“I recall you disputing it a fair few times,” chuckled d'Artagnan, leaning forward to brush his lips across Athos' cheek. “It’s good to talk to you again,” he added. “You’ve been missed.”

Standing away from the bed, Porthos became the same intruder that he had been on arriving at La Fère, only now it was not Treville that was the cause of it, but his own stupidity. He knew Athos as well as he did himself and should have noticed a long time ago that things weren't right.

“Porthos?”

Athos’ voice was still a siren call to him, but he resisted a look. “I’ll fetch you something to eat,” he said, turning to leave. Dawn was upon them and it was as good a time as any to break their fast. “We need to build your strength back up.”

“No more of that damn broth,” pleaded Athos and Porthos couldn’t help but smile.

“If that’s what’s made you well again then you’ll be eating it by the trough load.” He risked a glance at Athos and when their eyes met the effect was devastating. He had fallen in love and now he must fall out if it as soon as humanly possible. “Soup, brandy and a slice of toast and butter. Just what the doctor ordered.”

\---

Petrified every time Athos fell asleep Porthos remained at the periphery, keeping a safe distance away but watching like a hawk for any signs of relapse.

“When I said you should be careful I did not mean this,” frowned Aramis, as he neatened the bed clothes over a sleeping patient and covered the bowl of blood with a cloth. “It has been a fortnight and he is doing well. He would do even better if you would at least sit with him.”

“You have not taken advantage of him,” insisted d’Artagnan. “Please, Porthos, don’t throw this away. Chances of happiness come few and far between, and you must make the most of them. Aramis and I know this better than anyone.”

Porthos weighed up the argument and found it wanting, although he could understand d’Artagnan’s reasoning. He and Aramis had both fallen for married women and should have walked away early on, long before trouble occurred. They had neither of them done so and had found happiness, not in spite of this but because of it. The problem was that his situation was very different to theirs. Being with Athos was not an issue. At first he had resisted the idea of a love affair with another man but had soon seen the folly of his ways and had given in joyfully. He had, however, not known at the time that he was coercing a sick man into bed.

“When Athos is well I’ll return to the Musketeers,” he said, steeling himself for what came next. “The queen will soon have need of experienced soldiers who are loyal to the crown. On our travels, Athos and I discovered that discontentment was brewing throughout the north west provinces. The taxes are too high and the people there are starving. There is talk of rebellion in Anjou.”

Aramis stared at him. “You knew of this and yet you did not say anything until now?” He shook his head. “I cannot believe what I’m hearing.”

“How far along is this uprising?” asked d'Artagnan as he paced the floor.

“All talk so far,” said Porthos. “Which is why I didn’t immediately tell you.” He glanced at the sleeping man in the bed, careful not to let the others know how determined Athos had been that the queen should resolve this herself. If they ever found out that this mission of theirs had been to rouse trouble rather than quell it then they would never be forgiven. What a mess! Athos may have become increasingly delusional from the effects of the poison, but at heart he had always been a leveller.

“I’ll leave immediately,” said d’Artagnan. “As captain of the Musketeers I can advise the queen in your absence, Aramis.”

“Convince her to lower the taxes and you will be doing a good thing,” came a croaky voice from the bed. “You cannot maintain the support of the people if you treat them like chattel.”

Aramis scrubbed his hair back from his forehead then wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “This has everything to do with your decision to leave Paris,” he said, his voice heavy with disillusionment.

“Not a result of it directly, but it is part of the same underlying cause,” replied Athos. 

“For now I’ll consider this a symptom of your madness,” said Aramis. “If I think anything else of you then I’ll be forced to take action.” He rounded on Porthos. “This is why you agreed to leave with him. Foolishly I believed it was about brotherhood and loyalty.”

“Aramis, do not say anything you may come to regret,” warned d'Artagnan. “We should both leave for Paris today.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Aramis. Porthos is a loyal soldier and the truest of friends. Do not ever think otherwise,” said Athos and he may have been lying weak in his sick bed, but his eyes were full of their old fire. “He would never do anything to endanger the life of the queen regent or the king.”

“Except when it comes to you,” said Aramis. “Because then everything else pales into insignificance.”

He turned to leave and Porthos attempted to block his path, but Aramis was too quick for him, striding out of the room and down the corridor.

Porthos caught up to him at the bottom of the staircase. “Maybe I am guilty of what you say,” he confessed. “I tried to convince Athos that we must return, but he was too sick to listen. What else could I do? Leave him here alone and ride off to Paris?”

“I don't know,” replied Aramis fretfully. “I wish you had told me as soon as I arrived here.”

“And I should have done.” Porthos stared down at the toes of his boots as if they held all the answers. “I’m sorry.”

Aramis let out a deep sigh. “It’s impossible to make the best decisions when one is in love. God knows I’m guilty of a thousand mistakes.” He reached out for Porthos, holding him by the upper arms and kissing him on each cheek. “I say this because I care deeply about you, Porthos, but if you follow your heart on this occasion it will lead you into trouble. I realise now that your decision to step away is a sensible one.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” replied Porthos, his chest more leaden than ever. Soon he would be unable to withstand its weight.

“So, are we ready?” said d’Artagnan, joining them in the hallway. “I’ve said my goodbyes to Athos and have told him that I hope to see you both at the garrison before the month is out. Winter in the country is cold and unrelenting.”

“I’ll do my best to persuade him,” said Porthos, hugging d’Artagnan with all his might. He had developed a newfound respect for the young man who had grown from being an insubordinate soldier into a kind and thoughtful captain with all the best qualities of Athos and Treville. “Au revoir.”

He then returned to Aramis for a final farewell. “Advise the queen regent well,” he said. “What Athos told you is true. All across France people are growing desperate. The refugees are not an isolated case.”

“I will do as you say,” said Aramis. “Treville’s Musketeers must always stand as one.” 

He touched a finger to his forehead in a salute to their former captain and, for the first time since being here, Porthos felt the man’s presence.

“Au revoir, my friend,” he said. “I'll see you in Paris soon.” With or without Athos.

\---

Although he had watched Aramis let blood on many occasions, Porthos was still new to the practice and loathed that moment when scalpel blade pierced skin. This time the fluid gushed out in an unexpected cascade and an amount of it spattered onto the sheets.

“The soup is doing its work,” he said as he collected a bowlful in no time and then patched up the wound. “Aramis said its ingredients were designed to invigorate your blood and it appears to be doing just that.”

“Forgive me for my lack of faith in the healing properties of cabbage.” Athos smirked at him.

“Get your lazy arse out of bed so I can strip off these sheets,” said Porthos. “You’ve made a right mess of them.”

“I have?” said Athos with a quirk of the eyebrow. “I believe it was you who was slicing into my arm with all the skill of a butcher’s apprentice.”

The old fashioned banter between them did little to help Porthos get over his crush. Athos’ eyes sparked once again, full of amusement, full also of something that Porthos stubbornly refused to recognise.

“I’ll get some clean linens for the bed,” he said. “The bathtub is filled downstairs. You should make use of it. You must be pretty ripe by now.”

“Will you talk to me whilst I bathe?” Athos replied, stretching aching muscles then sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Can’t,” replied Porthos gruffly. “I need to catch rabbits for the pot. Otherwise it’ll be plain old broth for supper and we all know how much you love that.”

Athos frowned. “ _Porthos_.”

“What?” asked Porthos, already at the doorway with his arms full of bloody sheets.

“I- Never mind,” replied Athos, following this up with a sigh. “Go do your chores if that’s what makes you happy.”

“What would make me happiest is a return to Paris,” retorted Porthos.

“Then go,” replied Athos. “I am not stopping you.”

“Will you come with me?” ventured Porthos.

“It depends,” said Athos, getting to his feet, using the bedstead as a support.

Porthos sighed despondently. “You’re not fit enough to ride yet. Once you’re fully recovered then I’ll trade in the mules and cart for a couple of nags and we’ll head home.”

He left without waiting for a response, charging down the stairs, trying desperately to escape the surfeit of feelings that so far refused to die down. Once the sheets were bubbling away in the copper, he took a shotgun from the cellar armoury and headed out into the fields. 

The snares had been successful and his bag now contained two rabbit carcasses, but he was not yet ready to return and headed for the woods, hoping for a bird or two, despite the lateness of the season.

It was bitterly cold, but a pleasant day nonetheless, and if he and Athos had been a couple then he would have been mightily content with his lot. Instead he felt trapped, desperate to get away from this place. La Fère was a quagmire, smothering the life out of those who remained too long within its walls.

Lost to his thoughts, he was late aiming his gun and missed out on the chance of securing a woodpigeon. “Damn,” he exclaimed in fury at having failed to hit his third game bird in quick succession.

“You need to get back to the garrison sharpish in order to practice your marksmanship,” came a voice from behind him.

Wheeling around, Porthos was pleased beyond belief to see d’Artagnan and, after laying the gun down, he proved this with a hefty embrace. “What are you doing here, Captain?” he asked with a grin. Applying that title to their young whippersnapper always amused him no end.

“I came to bring you news,” said d’Artagnan. “I've been to the house already. To Athos’ great surprise, I might add. He jumped a country mile when I found him in the kitchen in his small clothes, so I’d hazard a guess that his health is much improved. Hopefully he’ll be dressed by now.”

“He is better and just needs to recover some more of his strength,” replied Porthos, an arm draped loosely around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “It’s good to see you again, my friend. Is all well at home?”

“Constance is marvellously round, complaining about her waistline and keeping herself distracted from it by shouting at all the cadets,” chuckled d’Artagnan. “Never tell her I said so or she’ll shout at me instead. The queen regent and the king are safe for now and Aramis is content, though there is news from the provinces that is worrying.”

“What news?” asked Porthos anxiously.

“Has Athos’ mind recovered as well as his body?” asked d’Artagnan.

“It has,” said Porthos with a nod. The man’s memory seemed restored and he was good humoured most of the time, that is when they were not arguing about the future.

“Then I shall tell you together,” said d’Artagnan. “I’ve brought your horses back, by the way. When we were investigating your tales of dissent, we stopped off at a chateau in Anjou and I recognised them immediately in the stables there. The baron was happy to return them without dispute.”

The Baron de St Vincent was a milksop, thought Porthos with a frown.

Athos must have been watching out for their return for when they arrived back at the house fires were lit and there was wine poured ready. There was, however, no sign of the man himself and Porthos was shaken to discover how empty the place seemed without his presence.

“He was far more delighted to see the horses than he was me,” laughed d’Artagnan. “I expect he’s fussing over them right now. I really don’t know why he bothers to keep up the pretence of being such a cold hearted bastard.”

His words brought to mind that farcical occasion when they had been trying in vain to catch a mare named Serena and Porthos couldn't help but chuckle at the memory. Athos had lost his patience that day, threatening to shoot the animal, but his friends had been well aware that it was just bluster. “He’s one of a kind,” he said. “I’ll go fetch him from the stables.”

Athos was indeed to be found in a loose box, feeding and grooming two old friends who had been part of the regiment for many years now, almost ready to be pensioned out. In contrast to his usual desire for action, Porthos found himself inventing an imaginary world in which all four of them could retire together.

“You shouldn't be loitering outside in the cold with damp hair,” he cautioned. “You’ll catch a chill.”

“Yes, mother.” Athos smiled at him, putting down the curry comb and taking a step forward into that danger zone.

Porthos retreated hastily. “I’ve left d’Artagnan gutting and jointing the rabbits. He won’t be too happy with me.”

His heart beating at double its usual pace he hurried out into the courtyard, heading for the safety of the kitchen, breath misting as he went. He longed now for Paris and the shield of other men surrounding him at all times. Without it he was lost.

Over supper, d’Artagnan explained the situation that had been causing he and Aramis some concern.

“Under advisement, the queen has sent out proclamations to all of France. Taxes have been halved and the army will no longer be given license to raid food stores at will. The nobles in the south are satisfied, but we have discovered that in Anjou they are refusing to contribute anything and are leaving the peasants to pay all dues. There is trouble brewing and it will not be long before it erupts.”

“That’s what happens when you do too little, too late,” said Athos with a shrug.

Porthos snorted with irritation, but d’Artagnan was more vocal in his disapproval. “You could show some sympathy, Athos,” he said with a stern look. “Aramis and the queen are our friends. Whatever her Majesty does will never be enough to appease the French nobles. She’s Spanish and they will always hate her for that.” He sighed. “In addition to this, rumours concerning the king’s illegitimacy are rife.”

“Unfortunately there's not a lot we can say about that,” muttered Porthos.

“Except that Louis knew the truth and still accepted Aramis’ child as his son and heir,” said Athos, surprisingly staunch in his defence of the boy king. “In my opinion that gives the boy every right to the throne. More so than those ingrates in Anjou who have no concern whatsoever for the welfare of their people.”

Overjoyed at Athos’ concession, d’Artagnan clapped him soundly on the shoulder. “And this is the reason we need both you and Porthos back in Paris. The nobles will not be expecting us to ride out in winter and so Aramis and I have decided it will be the perfect time to quash the rebellion before it has even started. Say that you will join us.”

“Of course,” said Porthos, who honestly couldn't wait. He had festered here for long enough and yearned to be back where he belonged.

“It depends,” said Athos, getting up from the table. “I am tired, gentlemen. If you will excuse me.”

Wine flowing freely, the two remaining friends indulged in sentimental reminiscences for the remainder of the night and all the old stories brought back to Porthos how essential it was that Athos should be part of the Musketeers once more, for his sake as much as theirs.

Stopping outside a door, on the way to his own chamber, he rapped his knuckles on the wooden panel, the sound echoing down the corridor, not loud enough to alert d'Artagnan, he hoped.

“Yes?” came a voice.

Porthos entered the room, closing the door behind him, the catch sliding into its housing with a secretive snick.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said, keeping the volume low.

Athos sat up and shook his head, scraping the hair away from his face. “No. Too many thoughts going on up here,” he said, tapping his temple.

“Better than before when there were none,” chuckled Porthos, coming over to sit next to him on the bed. “I won’t sleep either until I know you will be coming with me to Paris.”

“It depends,” said Athos and it was the third time of late that he had used this infuriatingly nondescript phrase.

“Depends on what?” questioned Porthos, frustrated beyond belief. He was a straightforward man by nature and did not have the capacity to deal with this kind of convoluted crap.

Leaning forward slightly, Athos reached out and cupped his face, thumb brushing across the swell of his mouth. Porthos ached for him, pushing into him in order to get closer, and when the kiss came it was beautiful, soft and sweet but still searing with passion. Every part of him clamoured for more and yet his brain insisted that it was the wrong thing to do. They must not set out on this path again. That way lay certain ruin. His heart may have told him otherwise, but he was learning to ignore its entreaties.

Snatching himself away from Athos’ arms, he hurried out of the room without speaking another word. If he lingered then Athos would see how much this had affected him and he daren’t let that happen.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for my disappearance. Things happened but now I am back.

Porthos was red eyed and exhausted as he said goodbye to d’Artagnan next morning with the promise that he would return to Paris as soon as the festivities of Christmas were over. Athos was nowhere to be found and Porthos made excuses for him as one would a child.

“He did mention that he might be going into Piñon.”

D’Artagnan smiled ruefully at this and then mounted his horse, ready to be on his way. “When he returns tell him that I’m sorry I missed him and that I’ll see you both soon.”

After much searching, Porthos finally discovered Athos sitting on the fallen tree trunk that overlooked the pond. “You had me worried. At least you’ve chosen some warm clothes to put on,” he said, taking a seat next to him. “Can’t have you getting ill when you’ve only just recovered.”

It had been so cold for so long that inches of ice now covered the water, an opaque layer of whiteness that was broken only by branches that protruded from the surface like angular limbs.

“I don’t recall ever coming down here in the winter,” said Athos. “It’s beautiful in its own way.”

As was he, thought Porthos who had never been an admirer of masculine looks before Athos, able to recognise handsomeness but not appreciate it.

“I won’t be going to Paris,” continued Athos in a low voice.

Porthos’ heart sank. “With all that you know, you’re still willing to walk away when our friends need us most?”

“I must.” Athos stood and tested the ice with his foot . “I have no choice.”

Porthos was incensed by this. “Despite everything that the queen has done to try and remedy the situation, the nobles in Anjou are still raising an army against her. You're honestly happy to stand back and let those bastards steal the throne away from the king?”

“My decision has nothing to do with politics,” said Athos wearily. “There is no place for me at the garrison. I’ve resigned my commission, and besides that-”

It was an infuriating habit he had of curtailing his sentences before they had reached a conclusion and Porthos was growing monumentally tired of it. “Besides bloody what?” he growled. “What else is stopping you from doing the right thing?”

“You are,” said Athos, shielding his face with a hand. “I cannot bear the thought of riding into battle with you, knowing all the while how much I repulse you. I understand why, my illness was unpleasant to say the least, but you must forgive me if I cannot simply carry on as though nothing happened between us. It is not my way.”

Porthos’ chest pounded as if his heart was about to break. “Damn,” he muttered. Athos couldn't think such a thing. Surely not. And yet why wouldn't he? “I was hoping you’d forgotten,” he said, and then realising the error of his words he took Athos' hand in his. “When we first got together you were already sick. I had no idea at the time that there was anything wrong, Athos, but I should have done. I know you so well and yet I couldn't tell that you were suffering. I used you and I hate myself for it. I won’t make the same mistake again.

Athos glanced sideways at him. “And what if it were not a mistake?”

Porthos remained stubborn on the matter. “You cannot be sure that it’s not the after effects of the poison making you believe that you care for me.”

“Porthos, listen to me,” said Athos. “The things that happened between us were not a result of some concoction cooked up over a campfire in the woods. I love you very much indeed and I’m hoping that you feel the same about me.”

“I do,” confessed Porthos. “But it doesn't alter the fact that this started out wrong.”

Athos sighed. “Tell me you don’t want us to be together and I’ll say nothing more on the subject, but as far as I’m concerned this lying in separate beds and pining for one another is getting old and tiresome.”

Pining summed it up perfectly. It was ridiculous that two grown men could remain in a state of permanent misery because of morés, convention and a simple misunderstanding of a dreadful situation.

“Damn it to hell,” he muttered, under his breath. This was ridiculous. Why was he fighting the inevitable? 

“If we are damned then please let it be together,” said Athos, as eloquently as always.

Yes, thought Porthos. Yes. This was what he wanted and it was what Athos wanted, so why pretend otherwise and be miserable? Free of uncertainty for the first time in ages, that weight inside him began to lift. 

“All right then,” he announced loudly as if he were proclaiming it to the world rather than the forest creatures. “Let’s make a go of things, yeah?” He was not clever with words, nor would he ever be, but this was indeed the nitty gritty of the matter. Hooking his arm around Athos he let loose that untameable grin that had been caged up for far too long. “But you have to promise there'll be no more rebellions, slow or otherwise.”

“No more, I swear,” said Athos, his mouth curling upwards into a half smile. “For now.”

Porthos was content with this. After all, as a wise man had once said, revolution would happen in its own time, with or without them.

Kissing was a wonderful relief after so long away from it, and with mouths locked and hands clasped around each other they reconnected, full of happiness and hope for the future, that is until panic set in once more and Porthos pulled away.

“This was another special place for you and Treville, I reckon,” he said warily.

“No,” replied Athos, softly but with great determination. “Treville will always be here, but he is my past. Everything of mine is now yours. Every part of me is yours. And from now on, every place will be ours.”

“Well then, if that’s the case I want to be someplace of ours that’s snug and flat,” said Porthos, encouraging Athos to his feet. “Get a move on. The last one back’s a sissy.”

They didn’t get as far as the upstairs of the house, stripping off clothes and boots and falling into that bed which was tucked away in a cranny of the kitchen, warmed by the heat of the range. There was no time for play; they came together face to face so they could kiss hard, in between the many impassioned declarations of need.

Unnatural it might be to some, but to Porthos making love had never felt so right. Bedding Athos was a joy. They lusted after each other, twisting in the bed until Athos was on top, riding Porthos, arching up and then hunching over to kiss him. They turned again with Porthos back in charge, fucking in deep until Athos locked limbs tightly around him and came, as beautiful as always. Porthos held out for as long as he could, dipping in slowly over and over again and then driving his orgasm home with a full body judder and a sigh of delight.

“We ought to be more careful,” said Athos, voice muffled as he nuzzled into the crook of Porthos’ neck. “D'Artagnan caught me near naked in here after a bath. I wouldn’t want anyone to discover us in flagrante.”

“Careful is for other places,” said Porthos, stroking Athos’ flank.

“Other places such as Paris perhaps,” said Athos, rolling over to look down at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “I will go with you on the condition that we march together. I will be by your side or not at all.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” said Porthos, leaving the warmth of the bedclothes to put the stockpot inside the oven.

“Please tell me that isn’t soup.” Athos groaned. “I can’t in all honesty stomach any more of the vile stuff.”

“That _vile stuff_ , as you call it, is what made you better,” replied Porthos, narrowing his eyes. They were left with only had a few short weeks to get Athos back to full fitness and if he had his way he would ensure that the medicinal broth was part of the menu every single day.

Athos sat up in bed, tucking his hands behind his neck and shaking his head with a look of fond despair on his face. “Porthos, I am recovered because you took care of me so well,” he insisted. “It had nothing to do with gallons of cabbage soup.”

“Don’t laugh at me.” Porthos returned to bed, torn between sulking and cuddling up for warmth. He opted for the latter, but kept up a determined pout.

“I’m not laughing.” Hand resting on a shoulder Athos leaned in close, breath ghosting over Porthos’ skin. “I’m far too busy loving you for that.”

“Sweet talker,” Porthos pushed back into the curve of Athos’ body and looked out of the window. His chest may no longer have been leaden, but the sky had taken its place, full of yellow grey clouds that were tumbling in from the north east. “It’s going to snow.”

“Good,” said Athos, reaching for Porthos' cock. “Then we’ll have no unexpected visitors for a while.”

\---

At first Winter arrived in a blizzard, determined to make its presence felt, but soon the wind died down and the flakes settled into a blanket which seemed to insulate the house from the cold, rather than add to it.

Christmas was the next visitor and Porthos looked forward to preparing for it, finding the best Yule log to burn for good luck and building up a well stocked pantry of cured meats, preserved fruits and vegetables. Athos grew stronger every day, well enough now for manual work and using it wisely to build up his muscles, ready for whatever the new year would bring.

On Christmas Eve they set the beast of a tree trunk burning in the hearth and then rode to the church in Piñon in order to celebrate mass at midnight with the townsfolk.

“It’s good to see you well again, Captain,” said Bertrand.

“Thank you,” replied Athos, sitting beside him in the front pew. “Though I am no longer commander of the Musketeers so monsieur will do perfectly well as a title.”

Monsieur de la Fère. Porthos tested it in his head and found it wanting. He would see about sorting it out soon enough.

The church service was simple but beautiful, the choir singing carols and rejoicing at the birth of a child saviour with dubious parentage. Why anyone would ban Christmas as they were doing in England was beyond belief. They were a strange bunch across the channel. Islanders were always peculiar people. 

When he was young, Porthos’ experiences of Christmas were vastly different to this--tradition was the preserve of the rich and the country folk--but there had still been good times that he looked back on with fondness. Garrison festivities were all about feasting and drinking with a smattering of mass thrown in for good luck. Brotherhood meant everything to him, but this surpassed it by a long way. It was the best feeling in the world to celebrate the season with a heart full of love.

Accompanied by a peal of church bells, which were ringing out to announce the arrival of Christmas Day, they paraded outside and said their farewells to the townsfolk then collected their horses from the livery. In the darkness of the stables Porthos stole a single kiss, checking first that they were alone.

“Joyeux Noël,” he said, enfolding Athos in a hug.

“And to you,” replied Athos, his breath warming Porthos' frozen lips.

The ride back to the chateau was glorious, the snow fields crusted with ice and sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. The bitter cold pierced its way through to Porthos' bones and it was a relief to stable the horses and enter the comfort of that cosy kitchen, locking the doors and barricading themselves inside once the food had been fetched in from the stores.

“Now we can celebrate properly,” he said taking Athos into his arms, icy hands working their way under a doublet and chemise and making his lover squirm and back away in horror.

“Warm yourself up first, man!”

“What do you think I was ruddy well doing?” laughed Porthos, ladling out spiced wine, hot from the range, into tankards. 

The food that night was a treat, but it was not the element of their feasting that Porthos was looking forward to the most. He had decided, if Athos were willing, that he would like to learn a little more about himself. He trusted Athos entirely with his body, the man being a wonderful teacher who would never push him further than he wished to go.

Drunk enough to be relaxed he kissed Athos full and determined on the mouth, after which things progressed quickly, as they always did, until they were naked and wrapped up in each other beneath the blankets. Porthos was a true virgin at this, had never been penetrated in any way during sex, shying away from it if truth be told, but tonight was the night for new discoveries and he found himself aching with need and jittery with excitement.

“Touch me,” he said, moving Athos’ hand downwards until it lay curled between his legs.

Unable to disguise his eagerness, Athos heaved in a deep breath. “Are you certain? I am in need of no Christmas present, other than you as you always are.”

“I want you,” said Porthos simply.

The oil had been warming by the fire ready for them and Athos reached for it, slicking it over his fingers. At first he concentrated on Porthos’ cock, leaning up on an elbow and watching intently as he worked his hand over the thick shaft. His mouth then came into play, suckling at Porthos’ nipples, turn and turn about, then licking a pattern of bruises at the juncture of neck and shoulder until he was practically incoherent with need.

“Oh god please. Damn you. Now.”

As that teasing hand moved lower, a spark of panic flared inside Porthos, but the moment a fingertip began to circle him he soared again with arousal, spreading himself wide and canting his hips. The moment of penetration could well have been a frightening one had it not been for Athos stemming that fear by taking him into his throat at the same precise second.

Grounded and yet floating, Porthos waited for a burst of angry pain that never arrived. Instead he welcomed the strangeness, pushing into it, bearing down and opening up as Athos explored him with one, two and then three fingers, delving in deep and twisting. 

Porthos had done this very thing to Athos a hundred times or more. He’d thrust in with his hand and seen the delight that had resulted from it, but had never come close to comprehending what absolute pleasure it could bring.

“Fuck me,” he begged, writhing against Athos' tongue and fingers, already a part of him but wanting to be so much more. “I need you to fuck me.”

Athos chuckled, low and throaty, and that in itself was enough to make Porthos beg harder, wanton and desperate to couple. “You are the most divine man,” he murmured, gliding over him then pulled in close by the force of Porthos’ legs. He reached down to position himself and Porthos grunted at the sensation of blunt heat, arching upwards to greet it.

They came together in a slow joining of bodies, with Porthos raised up on his elbows to see for himself how good they looked as one. This change of angle caused another explosion of lust inside him and he lay back pulling Athos to him. There was pain, but it was spectacular rather than agonising and he gave in to it, relishing each increment, squirming downwards to touch himself and then pulling away at the last second before it was too much.

His climax came upon him unexpectedly, a force flowing through him, every part of him tightening and then releasing as he came in a never-ending flow. Empty of everything but love he sank back into the pillows, Athos finishing him off with a steady pull on his cock, then withdrawing with a soft murmur of delight and coming over him in a flood.

“Now that’s what I call a celebration,” murmured Porthos, as content as he ever had been, pulling Athos to him and wrapping the blankets tightly around them to ward off the cold. “And to think we have twelve whole days of this.”

“You’ll suffer for it by morning,” warned Athos.

Porthos glanced over at a very happy man and grew smug. “What's a little pain amongst lovers?”

This quiet time, full of discoveries, became a holiday in the truest sense of the word. Porthos threw himself into his new world, reverent and slightly in awe of the fact that they could be so utterly compatible in all ways. Each day was more enjoyable than the last, chores being carried out with anticipation of the rewards that would follow. They had been happy once before, but it was incomparable to this profound sense of closeness that had now developed between them.

“I thought it would be emasculating,” said Porthos as they fucked joyfully in front of the fire, him on his knees with his breeches and braies pulled down in a hurry. “It feels anything but that.”

“Is this really the time for philosophising?” asked Athos, reaching around to tug at Porthos' thick cock.

“Seems perfect to me,”replied Porthos, announcing his approval as Athos altered the angle slightly. “Yeah, love, just like that,” he grunted, arching like a cat and rearing back against Athos, their skin slapping together with a delightful sound. “I’ve been thinking about it and it can’t be wrong. Men must be designed to do this.”

“How about we play a new game and I gag you?” deadpanned Athos at which Porthos grew impossibly hard in his hand.

Hours later, having discovered something that was new and exciting to both of them, they lay snoozing together, utterly spent in every way.


	13. Chapter 13

Two weeks later, with cart and mules now sold on to Remi the blacksmith in Piñon, they battened up the doors of Chateau La Fère and mounted their horses ready to leave. Porthos’ relationship with the house had been a rocky one from the beginning, veering dramatically between fondness and outright hatred. It was here, however, he had discovered a love that was so much more than he had believed possible up until now -- a conjoining of souls as well as hearts. La Fère was not the unwelcoming place he had once imagined it to be and was in fact a haven.

“I’ll miss it,” he said as they rode away, side by side down the lane.

“I think perhaps I will too,” said Athos, stopping and looking back over his shoulder at the last minute, the chateau now a dark rectangle centered within an arch of snow capped branches. “I was always so keen to leave, desperate to join the Gardes Françaises, desperate to join the Musketeers. Now I am leaving to become a soldier once again.”

“But with less urgency,” said Porthos, worries creeping up on him. “I wonder whether you should go.” If Athos was truly tired of soldiering then was it right to force him into it?

“I have all I need by my side.” Athos smiled at him. “And I have every intention of putting the Comte de Laurent in his place and shall delight in doing so. I consider it an honour to be riding shoulder to shoulder with you in such a worthy cause.”

Porthos was not only satisfied by this, but was full on overjoyed. There was no doubting the fact that Athos was back, smart and clever, ready to fight for justice and defend those he loved with devotion.

They made a detour along the way, returning to that ramshackle coaching house where Porthos collected his dusty uniform from the innkeeper, and then, acting on impulse, requested a room.

“One night,” he said to Athos with a cheeky grin. “D’Artagnan and Aramis can’t begrudge us that.”

There was no knowing where they would lodge once they were back in Paris. It would, however, seem a trifle odd if they remained joined at the hip.

The night was spent wisely and well, and by dawn both men were shattered and ready for sleep rather than a new day. The landlord informed them that the last of the hot water had just been taken and so they had to make do with a swift whore's bath, making use of the ewer and basin in the room.

“This is bracing,” smirked Athos as he towelled himself dry.

“I can think of other words for it,” growled Porthos, watching his manhood shrink away in fear at the icy cold. “Bloody and awful are two that come to mind.”

Breakfast was eaten in quiet contemplation. The immediate task ahead of them would be dangerous, although nothing they hadn’t faced before on a much larger scale. But what of afterwards, wondered Porthos.

He gave voice to this as they rode eastwards towards Paris. “What lies ahead for us now?” he asked in an echo of his own words from a former life. One which he struggled even to recognise now. He had been alone for so long, never lacking in companionship, but love was new to him.

“War then peace, and after that who knows?” smiled Athos, fit of body, sound of mind and fully restored to his old self. “It really doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?” Porthos grinned at him. What had happened to his man?

“No,” replied Athos. “Not if we face every challenge the way we always have done, with courage no matter how many enemies lie in wait for us and faith that daylight will follow the dark.”

“So, you’re planning on quitting the army and becoming a rotten poet then?” Porthos let out a guffaw of laughter which was soon silenced by a swift elbow to the ribs. “That hurt, you know,” he complained adding a pout for good effect.

Athos smiled. “I’ll kiss it better as soon as we find ourselves a place to stay.”

“And I’ll hold you to that,” said Porthos with an answering grin.

Athos was right. It didn’t matter, he decided after some more contemplation. He too had all he needed beside him.

\---

The return home seemed less spiritual than Porthos had imagined it would be and as they clattered across the cobblestone bridge and through the city gates, he turned to Athos and smiled.

“So, how does it feel to be back in Paris?”

“Much clearer than the last time I was here,” Athos replied. “I see now how muddled I was becoming.”

Porthos imagined that great weight of grief combined with the effects of the poison and wondered how the man had managed for so long.

“You were a trooper,” he said. “And now you will be a leader of troops.”

Athos shook his head. “I do not have it in me and I’ve known this for many years. Besides, there is no-one left for me to command.”

“We’ll be generals together,” grinned Porthos. “Leading our armies from the front and carrying the regimental colours into glorious battle.”

“And you call me the bad poet?” Athos laughed at him. “Your romantic soul is showing, Porthos. Your vision of war is beautiful but flawed.”

“Not to me,” growled Porthos. “It’s as deadly accurate as my shooting.”

“Foolish man,” smirked Athos with a sideways glance that was full of affection.

A return to the garrison proved to be a true return home and the nostalgic expression on Athos’ face told Porthos that he was not alone in thinking this. The courtyard was filled with cadets, the clamour of swordfighting balm to an old soldier’s restless spirit. As one, they looked up at the balconied walkway and Porthos swore for a moment he could see Treville watching down on them, pleased at what he saw.

In actuality it was d’Artagnan who was standing on that raised platform above them, unaware that he was under observation as he complained in aggrieved fashion about his cadets’ techniques.

“Palomer, you’ll not last five minutes if you don’t keep your wits about you. Brujon, have him practise an extra hour a day with the rapier.”

“Yes, Captain,” replied the young lieutenant.

“He’s quite the tyrant,” smirked Athos.

“That he is,” replied Porthos. “What do you reckon? Shall we catch him by surprise?”

“Leave him to me,” said Athos and with a hand on the hilt of his sword he crept up the wooden steps, shouting out an “En guard,” as he reached the top and drawing ready for battle. Porthos, who was watching from safety of the office doorway, laughed out loud at d’Artagnan’s reaction, fury giving way to pleasure as the new captain took a fighting stance.

“Children,” came a long suffering and yet amused grumble from beside him. “Will you boys ever grow up?”

“Who’s the one calling us boys?” said Porthos, kissing Constance and taking in how well pregnancy suited her. “Not long now,” he said.

“Two months, by my reckoning,” she replied. “Shall I engage you for your midwifery services?”

“Afraid I’m retired from all that,” said Porthos. “Elodie was my last customer. She still hasn’t paid me, you know.”

Constance let out a peal of laughter. “It’s a relief to see Athos fit and happy,” she added with approval. “You’re a good friend to him.”

“No more than he is to me,” said Porthos, pleased that other facets of their relationship remained a private matter, as they should be, as they would continue to be.

The duel now declared a draw, the two combatants strolled up to meet them, out of breath and ruddy cheeked. 

“He’s still a reasonable swordsman,” said Athos, quirking an eyebrow. “Despite the fact that we’ve not been here to train him.”

“Reasonable, my arse,” retorted d’Artagnan. “You know that I would have bested you-”

“If I had not done so first,” interjected Athos with a smirk.

“I’m certain you’d win at a wine pouring contest, Captain,” hinted Porthos who had a mighty thirst after such a long journey. A bowl of stew wouldn't go amiss either, for that matter.

“And how about some food to soak it up,” suggested Constance.

“You read my mind,” beamed Porthos. “Your wife’s a genius, d’Artagnan.”

\---

The meal provided by the cookhouse turned out to be a veritable feast and had Porthos owned a bed to lie in then he would have made use of it for an after dinner nap. His gaze then drifted lazily over Athos, riding in front of him, and new ideas, that had little to do with sleeping, invaded his thoughts.

“I was certain they’d find room for us _somewhere_ in the garrison,” he muttered a trifle petulantly, egged on by his libido.

“We’ll take lodgings if necessary.” Athos turned to smile at him. “Being homeless has its advantages. No one can keep track of what we are up to.” However that good mood of his diminished the closer they drew to the palace. “I wonder how well I will be received,” he muttered after a spell of silence.

“Don’t fret,” said Porthos, drawing level and slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re loved by one and all.” He received a wry shake of the head in return for this comment but beneath it lurked an air of gratitude.

True enough Athos was welcomed by a firm hug from the first minister, resplendent in his robes, and after that he received a smile of friendship from the queen.

“This young man cannot be the king,” said Porthos, kneeling before Louis and bowing his head. “You’re growing up quickly, your Majesty. How's the riding coming along?”

Louis looked to his mother for advice on etiquette and then gave up on all that nonsense, regaling Porthos with stories about his stable of ponies and the training Aramis was giving him at swordsmanship.

“He let me shoot his pistol once,” whispered the boy. “But Mama must not find out or she will be angry.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” replied Porthos in his most serious voice, smiling as the child continued to chatter away, nineteen to the dozen. He was indeed his father's son.

With a respectful ear on the young king, he kept his other tuned in to the second conversation which was carrying on above him.

“I apologise for the disloyalty I have shown you, your Majesty,” said Athos. “I can assure you that I never intended any harm to come to you or the king and will do my utmost to make amends.”

“There is no one on earth I trust more than my Musketeers, Athos,” replied the queen gently. “You have served me dutifully and if it weren’t for you and Porthos then we would be entirely ignorant of what is happening in Anjou.”

“Consider the matter forgotten, mon cher” said Aramis, kissing him on both cheeks. “You are well and ready to return to service I hope?”

“I am,” replied Athos. “Though in what capacity I am uncertain.”

Louis, bored of talking about pastimes, had returned to his toys and Porthos considered himself dismissed, his full attention now on the conversation that was being carried on at adult height. 

“If d'Artagnan chooses to stay at home with Constance, which I am certain he will, then you must take command of the Musketeers,” declared the queen who then turned to Porthos with a smile. “And with you in charge, General du Vallon, this will be a perfect solution.”

“Your Majesty?” Porthos doubted what he was hearing. 

“My offer still stands,” she replied. “Athos advised me a long time ago that you are one of the best tacticians France has and therefore Aramis and I can think of no one better to take charge of this new army of ours.”

“I’m honoured, your Majesty.” Porthos could feel himself blushing at the compliment.

“It is much deserved,” said Aramis.

Athos agreed with a slight tilt of the head, as restrained as always but clear in his meaning. “I, however, would prefer not to take over command of the Musketeers,” he added. “It would be wrong for many reasons. Firstly, d’Artagnan was promoted out of merit and not by default. More importantly though, he has trained those cadets himself and will want to be the one to lead them into battle as fully fledged soldiers.”

“But what of Constance?” asked Anne, speaking now as a friend rather than a queen.

“Constance is one of the strongest women I have ever had the pleasure of knowing,” replied Athos. “She will undoubtedly agree with every word that I have said.” 

“Hear hear,” said Porthos. Whilst he’d love to have Athos back as captain of the Musketeers, d’Artagnan, though young, was equally as able. In addition to this, he knew the strengths and weaknesses of his own men and it was right that he should be the one to command them.

Aramis laughed. “We had considered you would likely rebel against our ideas,” he said, an arm around each of their shoulders. “And so we came up with a contingency plan.”

“Such as?” growled Porthos, suspicious of everything where Athos’ safety was concerned.

“The Carabins Noirs have lost their captain. The poor fellow died of plague during the last campaign and has not yet been replaced,” continued Aramis.

A shiver ran down Porthos’ spine. He knew from Athos’ reminiscences that the cavaliers and the de la Fères were not a happy mix.

“I would be honoured to take command of them,” replied Athos, bowing his head. “I know the regiment well.”

\---

As a temporary solution to their lack of accommodation, Porthos rented a small townhouse that was fit for a general, equidistant from the Louvre, where he spent most of his time, and the barracks on the outskirts of the city, headquarters of Athos’ new regiment. If their togetherness was ever called into question by anyone then the reason for it was obvious. In a city that was bursting at the seams, refugees and other incomers swelling its population with every day that passed, there were no other suitable living quarters to be found at such short notice.

It was late afternoon and Porthos was about to leave the palace, considering what to have for dinner, amongst other important things, when he was waylaid by Aramis who’d caught up to him at the exit which led to the stable block.

“I was going through Treville's belongings when I found these,” he said, presenting Porthos with a bundle of letters, bound by a ribbon. “I read enough to know that they are all from Athos. I’m certain he would like to have them back.”

“Thank you,” said Porthos. “He would indeed. We’ve talked about them before.” He inhaled a breath to steady himself. Sometimes he missed Treville so much that he would willingly sacrifice his happiness to have the man back. He had been a father to him when his own had been missing from his life.

“I was wrong about you two,” said Aramis in a low voice. “I spoke far too harshly regarding Athos. I’m glad you saw sense and ignored my interference.”

“Thanks,” said Porthos once more, gruffer this time, and then he grinned. “For the record, I've always found you incredibly easy to ignore.” 

“A demotion can happen just as quickly as promotion,” chuckled Aramis. “So be off with you before I carry it out.”

“At your service, Minister,” grinned Porthos, immensely happy at having his dearest friend back at close quarters.

He returned home to discover fires burning merrily in the hearths and a smell of roasting meat pervading the air. It was a scene of domestic bliss and he hunted around for the epicentre, discovering Athos in the scullery, cleaning the mud from his boots.

“Not the job for a captain,” grumbled Porthos. “We should employ a lackey or two.”

“Really?” Athos arched an eyebrow. “But then I wouldn't be able to do this.”

Placing polished boots on the floor, he stood and wrapped his arms around Porthos’ waist, leaning in for a kiss.

“What are these?” he questioned a moment or two later on discovering the papers in Porthos’ hand. 

“The letters you wrote to Treville,” replied Porthos, passing them over to their owner. “Aramis returned them to me.”

“Oh,” said Athos, looking cautiously down at them. “It’s strange, I know, but for some reason they seem more personal than the ones he sent to me. I read his so often that the parchment had worn thin, whereas these are a mystery.”

Armed with a decanter of wine and two glasses they retired to their small drawing room, sitting close together on the settee nearest to the fire.

“I was just a child when I wrote this,” marvelled Athos, scanning through the earliest of the letters. “So very earnest.”

“You still are,” smiled Porthos. “Earnest with a hint of wickedness. Just how I like it.”

He too began to read, gaining insight into the mind of a serious boy, a lover of all things classical and military and a staunch admirer of Treville from the beginning.

“You did everything you could to impress him,” he laughed as the years passed by in literary form. “Were your seduction techniques as brash later on?”

Athos blushed. “They weren’t particularly subtle. I remember discussing at great length my thoughts on the physical nature of the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus.”

“Tease,” chuckled Porthos.

“As I recall, he and I were naked at the time following a swim in the river.” 

“No wonder he couldn’t resist you,” muttered Porthos, inclining his head for a kiss.

“He resisted fiercely then and for many years after that,” replied Athos, once they had come up for air. “More wine?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Porthos, going back to the pile of letters, enjoying the steady thrum of arousal that was a constant whenever they were alone together and relaxed.

The mood of the writing changed soon after this, firstly to one of excitement as the young Athos began his training as a cadet with the Gardes Françaises and then turned swiftly to misery after the death of his belovéd father at the hands of a group of Huguenot rebels.

Porthos laid the rest of the letters down, unable to continue. 

“What is the matter?” asked Athos, taking ownership of a hand and stroking a thumb across its skin.

“The Carabin Noirs were your father’s regiment,” said Porthos. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

Athos shook his head and smiled. “My father was a Guardsman to the core,” he said with utter conviction. “When we ride for Anjou in a few days time, the banners that fly above our heads will mean nothing. We will go to war as Musketeers.”

“You should be general,” growled Porthos, both empowered and impassioned by these words. “Bed now,” he insisted, tugging at Athos’ hands until the man rose laughing from the seat.

And to bed they went, stripping off clothes along the way with Porthos now in full agreement that they should never employ help around the house. He loved the freedom of being able to push Athos down, halfway up the stairs and suck voraciously at his cock.

“Ride me, General du Vallon,” said Athos, racing into the bedroom then throwing himself onto the mattress and spreading out supine across the blankets. 

Porthos, who’d initially had other things in mind, was lured in by voice and eyes and did as he was told, seating himself in the saddle then taking Athos inside him an inch at a time and enjoying the duality of his role as both giver and taker. He loved the feel of having Athos in him, fucking him hard until a change of angle caused sparks to fly behind his eyes and he came in a wash over Athos’ belly, an answering flare of heat inside him.

“This’ll be rationed from now on,” he sighed as he collapsed downwards onto Athos’ chest.

“Abstinence is the word,” replied Athos, stroking Porthos' curls as he was his habit after they’d made love.

“Well then, it’ll be the shortest campaign in history,” declared Porthos. He couldn't survive without Athos, not for a night, let alone months on end.


	14. Chapter 14

Stifling a yawn, Porthos pulled the canvas tent flap to one side and looked out at the army of soldiers, _his_ soldiers who had mustered in the training grounds, just outside the borders of Paris. 

Horses were hitched to artillery, the cavalrymen were mounted ready and the supply wagons were loaded with as many resources as they could carry. In addition to this came the massed ranks of infantry who were, by themselves, a sight to behold, banners fluttering above them as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, with their brothers in arms.

As the sun appeared full and bright above the forested hills, Porthos inhaled a fortifying breath of morning air and looked from one side to the other at the two men who flanked him -- his captains, his friends. One of them so much more. “Reckon we’re ready for the off.”

“Reckon we are, General,” agreed d’Artagnan, mocking him gently.

“Surely you wouldn’t dream of leaving without me?” came a voice from outside the tented headquarters.

“Aramis,” cried Porthos, overjoyed to see his old friend who was as always dressed impeccably, but in armour rather than the finery of court. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

“I’m volunteering for the job of adjutant,” said Aramis with a flamboyant salute. “I am at your disposal.”

“Should you not remain in Paris with the queen regent?” questioned Athos.

“She and the king are well protected by guards that I have hand picked and trained myself,” replied Aramis. “I failed to ride with you the last time you went to war and have regretted it ever since. My place, my dear friends, is here.”

“And of course we are glad to have you,” said Athos, embracing him and kissing him with fervour.

“You were missed back then,” added Porthos who had been bitterly disappointed that Aramis had chosen holy orders over them. It had taken him some time to get over it.

“I shall do my utmost to make up for it,” replied Aramis.

“Well now that’s been decided,” said d’Artagnan, full of his usual impatience, “can you please give the orders to march out, General du Vallon. The sooner we set off, the greater the chance I have of being home in time to see my child born.”

Aramis laughed. “As if Constance would allow you anywhere near the bedroom during such a thing.”

\---

They had been travelling for two days now, the journey inevitably slowed by the presence of artillery and wagons. Porthos, however, wasn’t complaining at the sluggish pace they were making. Far from it in fact, because with Aramis beside him it was as if time had retraced its steps and they were, once again, those two young men, not yet burdened by adulthood and eager to see action.

“Remember our first campaign?” he said. “Mon Dieu, we were foolish back then.”

“Treville had to keep a tight rein on us,” chuckled Aramis. “You won’t be able to fleece the soldiers out of their earnings this time, my friend.”

“That I won’t.” Porthos grinned. “I’ll have to empty your pockets instead.”

“Try Athos,” suggested Aramis. “His are fuller than mine.”

“But what’s his is mine,” grumbled Porthos. “So where’s the fun in that? Plus he can read me too well nowadays.”

“It’s inevitable when you become a couple,” said Aramis. “It’s not only your bed that is shared, but your mind also.”

Porthos considered these words and agreed wholeheartedly with them. Less than a year ago the very idea of it would have made him feel smothered, and perhaps with anyone else it would still be the same, but Athos centred him, giving him freedom rather than boundaries.

“I wondered for years whether there was a heart beating inside that barrel chest,” laughed Aramis. “But things are clear enough now. It’s not hard to see the direction of your thoughts. Or, for that matter, your eyes.”

Porthos shrugged. It was true; he did keep his gaze firmly fixed on that stark black banner of Athos’ cavalry regiment who were leading the way. It would be far worse when they were engaging with the enemy and he was expected to stay back and issue orders from the rear.

As they neared Anjou, a party of scouts returned from their surveillance mission with reports on the position of the rebel army and also an estimation of current numbers. By the sound of it they had arrived in the nick of time. Any later and ensuing battles would have seen them at a disadvantage, unable to choose territory and dictate the terms.

They made camp in a location which allowed them to keep track of the enemy and Porthos immediately called a meeting of his regimental commanders, pleased at the opportunity to see Athos.

The weather was typical of February, dank, drear and bitter, the kind of cold that settled in one's bones and made itself known as a deep seated ache. There was a whisper of sleet in the air and Porthos could hear it patter slightly on the canvas roof of his campaign tent as he rose to speak to the small group that had gathered.

Maps of the area had been laid out beforehand and Porthos leant over the table, pointing out the locations of the enemy forces that were mustering outside the walls of Angers.

“Well, gentlemen, I’m pleased to tell you that as revolutions go, this is a pretty half hearted affair,” he began. “It won’t be a walkover, but we have every chance of defeating them as long as we draw their troops away from the walls and the castle. If we engage there we’ll be bombarded by cannon fire.”

“How experienced are their soldiers?” asked d’Artagnan.

“According to reports, a few of them are Swiss mercenaries, but as luck would have it, most appear to be pitchfork wielding peasants,” said Aramis.

“Never underestimate the power of the people,” warned Athos. “We know for a fact how lethal they can be, even with just a few hours of training.”

“True,” said d’Artagnan. “But better to be facing them than an army, bought and paid for by Marie de Medici.”

“So if we successfully draw their forces out without getting obliterated, what then?” asked Fournier, commander of the second Hussars.

“It will be the turn of our cavalry, Captain,” said Athos, pointing to a protected position on the map. “Our combined forces will flank their artillery here. If we can take out their cannon then they will be far easier to defeat.”

“Do we know how many they have?” asked Fournier. 

“Unfortunately not,” said Porthos. “But Athos is right. We need to neutralise them and cavalry is the best chance we have. Our own guns are a limited resource.” He hated the idea of Athos and his men leading the charge--they had been the first line of attack at La Rochelle and an entire company had been extinguished--but what choice did they have? “We have to ensure that their army does not get a chance to retreat to the swamplands of Saint-Aubin. If that happens we’re in big trouble. Prepare your soldiers for battle, gentlemen. We engage at dawn.” As everyone was making their way out of the tent, Porthos waited until the last second before speaking again, casually, he hoped. “Captain de la Fère, a word.”

Athos turned abruptly and nodded. It was only the hint of a smile on his lips that made this seem anything other than formal.

“Make sure you act with caution tomorrow,” Porthos said once they were alone, the words sounding foolish to him the moment they had left his lips. Soldiering was a decisive business. Any lack of conviction would be exploited by the enemy and inevitably lead to disaster.

Athos, however, took them in the spirit they were intended. “I am no longer that drunken daredevil you first met,” he assured him, quieting any worries. “You know that to be true.” He smiled. “I have a lot to live for nowadays.”

“We both do,” replied Porthos, wishing they were anywhere but here. Just one kiss would calm his frayed nerves.

“I must go,” said Athos reluctantly. “My men need to know how vital their mission will be tomorrow.”

“Without you we are lost,” said Porthos. He would be lost.

\---

As he watched the component pieces of his pint sized army move forward into position, Porthos knew for certain that he was not intended for this purpose. He had once said to Athos, many moons ago, that he had been put on this earth a fighter. He may be dressed in the finest Parisian plate mail, but what was the point of it when he was a full league away from the action? Armour should be scratched and dented, scarred from a thousand sword strikes.

Beside him, Aramis watched the action intently, field glasses to his eyes. “Our plan is working. They have taken d’Artagnan’s bait and are in pursuit, moving away from the town fortifications.”

Porthos was viewing a different location. He’d seen both cavalry regiments gallop in, but the deep cover of woods was making it impossible to follow the action. All he knew was that their cannon were still firing, ranks of pikemen being decimated by the blasts.

“Damn it,” he exclaimed, casting aside his spyglass. “What use am I here? Fetch my horse,” he called to a groom. 

The sheer weight of metalwork made mounting difficult, but Porthos managed it with a boot up from the stable lad. “I hope he can take the strain of it,” he said, patting the horse's neck.

“He’ll do his best for you,” said Aramis. “As will I.”

Heading into battle, Porthos wished fervently that there were two more alongside them. The cannon were still firing, their line of pikemen now close to obliterated and, at d'Artagnan’s orders the Musketeers set aside their firearms and unsheathed their swords, accompanied by the sound of an almighty explosion. That never ending bombardment from the west had now ceased. There were cheers from the ranks and the only cannon fire to be heard was coming from their own gun lines, aimed at the enemy infantry.

As he charged into the fray, Porthos knew that soldiering may have been his chosen career, but it was no longer his raison d'être. 

\---

After a full week of fighting, despite victory over the artillery, they had gained no significant ground and had lost near to a quarter of their troops. Bloodied and weary, Porthos rallied his men who, in contrast to him were not lacking in spirit and remained devoted to a general that put himself at the forefront of every battle.

It was the end of a particularly ferocious day of skirmishing, enough was enough, and Porthos had insisted that he and Athos took a little time for themselves. Romance was eschewed in favour of companionship, but the subtlety was not lost on Aramis and he made himself scarce, joining d’Artagnan for an evening an evening of cards and tactical talk.

“Not too long ago you advised me to show caution,” said Athos, pouring two glasses of brandy. “And yet you refuse to do the same.”

Porthos baulked at these words. He and his men had not attempted any manoeuvres that were particularly risky. “What you mean is that you'd prefer me to stay back.”

“That is your job as general,” stated Athos. “And you must do it to the best of your ability. I was once reprimanded by Treville for opting to be a soldier rather than a commander and doing poorly at both. I took his advice then and am offering you the same.”

“Tried it,” growled Porthos. “Ain't going to happen.” 

“It must,” said Athos, the seriousness of his words reflected in the tone with which he delivered them. “If we are to stand any chance of winning.”

\---

“I hate this,” muttered Porthos as he surveyed the battlegrounds from a viewpoint above the city. The soldiers were chess pieces on a board, white versus black, good versus evil, and impartiality was the key. By sending off riders with orders, he was able to direct the flow of action and, slowly but surely they were beginning to gain ground.

“You're doing what you must in order to secure victory,” said Aramis as they watched another enemy battalion offer up their surrender. 

“Let it be soon,” said Porthos, looking skyward and praying silently that they would not suffer any further casualties.

“What is going on now?” cried Aramis suddenly. “Athos has left his men.”

Porthos shook his head. “He wouldn’t do that. You must be mistaken.” With spyglass to eye he surveyed the field, trying to pick out Athos from amongst the many thousands of soldiers. It was an impossible task.

“There,” said Aramis pointing. “To the east of the Carabin standard.”

Porthos focused in on Athos, frenzied in his fighting style and showing none of that exemplary control for which he was renowned nowadays. At this distance it was impossible to recognise the faces of the enemy that surrounded him, but the pattern of the coat of arms that fluttered above their heads was distinctive.

“Fetch the horses,” Porthos cried out. “Now. Quick as you can.”

“Christ,” said Aramis. “D’Artagnan and his men are coming to Athos’ assistance, but they are being drawn too close to the castle walls. What is he thinking? This war is damn near over.”

“He’s thinking revenge,” growled Porthos, unstrapping the most unwieldy parts of his armour and casting them aside as he mounted up, Aramis following suit.

“It’s sheer lunacy.” Aramis glanced sideways at Porthos. “I’m sorry, my friend. I didn’t mean anything by that. It was a poor choice of words on my part.”

“But not wrong,” growled Porthos as he mounted up and then, at the last minute, called over a rider. “Go tell the gun captains to cease fire. Quick as you can, boy. Lives are at stake.”

This done, he and Aramis set off at a gallop, through the carnage of bodies and the acrid fog of saltpetre smoke that combined with the mist and hung low over the battle grounds. At this close range, the pounding of cannon fire was deafening.

“They should have stopped by now,” yelled Porthos, charging at determined pace towards the gates of Angers with only Athos in his thoughts. 

Relief rising like sap he sighted him, fighting one to one with the Comte de Laurent who was disadvantaged both by his ornately fashioned armour and a prissy style of combat.

“If it isn't the slave come to rescue his master once again,” came a thickly accented voice.

Porthos halted his horse and stared at the black clad figure. For a split second he imagined it was the ghost of Lucien Grimaud, reaping the souls of the fallen, but then he recognised the comte's henchman, Gallet.

Dismounting, he swung his sword before his boots had even made contact with the turf, steel clashing against steel, and he was easily besting his opponent when an explosion sent shock waves thundering through the earth, knocking him off his feet.

Part of the castle wall was collapsing, blocks of granite falling to the ground, and thrusting Gallet away from him, Porthos searched frantically for his friends. Musketeers, dazed from the impact, appeared like ghouls from the scene of destruction. Aramis was unharmed, but of Athos or d’Artagnan there was as yet no sign.

The world now turned to slow motion, Porthos watched from a distance as the Comte de Laurent scuttled away with Gallet at his side, rallying their forces as they fled northwards.

“We’ll find you and deal with you,” he yelled after them. “Have no fear of that.”

This show of bravado meant little, however, for at this moment he was filled with nothing but fear -- a sickening, stomach clenching terror that gushed through his veins like ice water. 

“Athos,” he called, his voice rough with distress. “For God’s sake, Athos, please.” Hadn't they been through enough?

He scrabbled frantically at the rubble, heaving aside boulders as Athos had done when he had been searching for him. That was less than a year ago, he realised. So much had changed between them in such a short time, but the truth was that they had always been devoted to one another.

“Here!” he shouted as he made contact with flesh, too dark in colour to be Athos, but just as important to him. “D’Artagnan. Stay strong, mon ami. We’ll get you out of there in no time.”

Victory now decided, townsfolk, loyal to the king, hurried out to help them dig. Soon d'Artagnan was clear of the collapsed walls, drinking brandy from a flask and slowly coming to his senses as the others carried on searching. One by one they dragged Musketeers clear of the stonework, finding Brujon, stunned yet thankfully in one piece and then Palomer who was much worse off, his chest crushed from the falling masonry. 

As of yet there was no sign of Athos and the longer they searched, the more convinced Porthos grew that he was looking for a body rather than a living man. When his gauntlet made contact with a familiar gloved hand, he was terrified yet doubly determined in his efforts.

“Are you alive?” he murmured as he looked down upon a face that was plastered in blood and dirt.

Eyes fluttered open. A mouth turned up at the corners. “I am,” said Athos. “A little battered but still serviceable.”

Not too far away from them, d’Artagnan laughed, but Porthos failed to get the joke. “What did you think you were playing at?”

“It was the Comte de Laurent,” rasped Athos.

“I know it was,” agreed Porthos as he helped Athos to his feet. “And because of your actions he and his men have now fled to Saint-Aubin where we’ll have a bugger of a job to find them.” He hadn’t intended to snap, but that prolonged buildup of tension was making him fractious.

“Our friends are well and the battle has been won,” said Aramis, handing Athos a hip flask of brandy. “Be grateful for small mercies, chéri.”

“I am,” replied Porthos and truly he was, but the fear of losing Athos was hard to push aside. “I thought you were a goner,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry,” replied Athos under his breath. “I did warn you that command was not my forté.”

Porthos clamped a hand down hard on his shoulder, weary but happy. Despite everything, Athos was impossible to resist. “You did indeed,” he agreed. “And I’m no better at it myself. Perhaps it’s time for us to hang up our boots after all.”

“Once we’ve dealt with a final loose end then I couldn't agree more,” replied Athos. He then shrugged. “Until we are needed again.”

\---

Accepting surrender of the Anjou nobles on behalf of the queen regent, Porthos ordered those captured to be carted in prison wagons back to Paris for trial.

His final set of orders was to the Musketeers.

“The Comte de Laurent and his men are hiding in the swamps of Île Saint-Aubin,” he said as he addressed the group of young soldiers, blooded from their first experience of war and high because of it . “It won’t be easy pursuing them through that kind of territory.”

“Not a problem,” d’Artagnan assured him with a smile. “On the most part, they fight like dairy farmers.”

“I consider that an offence to dairy farmers,” chuckled Aramis. “They fight more like cows.”

“Their combat skills, or lack of them, are not the issue,” said Athos sternly. “They know the lie of the land and we don’t.”

“It’s easy enough to fall victim to the swamps in the best of conditions,” said Porthos, looking up at a dense grey sky. The weather was not being kind to them, a wet mist hung like a shroud over the land and with no sun to burn it off it seemed likely that it would remain that way for the rest of the day.

Leaving the horses on solid ground, they crossed the river, filing over a narrow wooden bridge, the thud of boots an alert to all that they were entering the swamplands.

This was an unforgiving place, reeds at eye level concealing hidden dangers of all kinds, and with Porthos taking the lead they progressed slowly, swords drawn ready for ambush. 

Unlike that hidden pond at La Fère this place was far from mystical. The air was dank, mist hanging wraithlike over the green waters and Porthos wondered whether he had made a dire mistake, endangering the lives of his troops in order to capture one man. But the Comte de Laurent was a traitor, he reminded himself. A self serving man who would continue to act against the queen if he weren’t brought to justice. This was a matter of duty as much as it was revenge.

Athos, at his flank, held up a hand to halt the troop of Musketeers. There were sounds coming from all around them, eerie in this confusing world. 

“Hold your nerve, Musketeers,” murmured d’Artagnan, his sword raised ready. “Keep your wits about you and stand your ground. At least here we are safe enough.”

One of the young Musketeers shot blindly into the mist and others reacted to this mistake, firing their pistols at thin air.

“Cease fire now,” barked Athos. “You’re needlessly wasting ammunition as well as pinpointing our location to the enemy.”

The attack was not unexpected, but it was both sudden and furious. This time the Musketeers remained steady, shooting from ranks, biding their time as they waited for the Comte’s men to come forward, and little by little Porthos regained his faith in d’Artagnan's young soldiers.

“Porthos,” hissed Athos. “Over there.”

Porthos followed his line of sight and as the mist swirled he caught sight of a flash of expensive armour. Leaving the Musketeers to their work, the two of them navigated the swamp, testing the ground ahead of them and holding on to tree branches as they skirted around the comte, blocking off any chance of his retreat.

“Gallet will be with him,” murmured Porthos.

“Perhaps others,” replied Athos. “Although I doubt it. He does not have many left loyal to him.”

“He didn’t have many to begin with,” growled Porthos. 

Silent now, they stalked their prey until with a single nod from Porthos as signal they launched an attack from behind, catching Laurent and Gallet by surprise.

“Sorry to disturb you in your little hiding place,” said Porthos. “But we thought it was time you joined your mates in the Châtelet.” He let loose a vigorous swing of his cutlass at Gallet and then picked up a branch, swinging it club like in his right hand. “You and me haven’t had a proper one on one yet, have we? Well now's your chance to show me what you got.”

Gallet was a crude but effective swordsman, his lack of training making him far more lethal than Laurent who was being bested easily by Athos once again. Distracted, Porthos laughed as Athos toyed with the comte, treating him as if he were a training dummy rather than a worthy opponent.

“The problem is that you’re all show,” said Athos. “Your dance moves will not help you defeat me. I was also taught badly at first, but then I learned from the best.”

“You’re a worthless traitor, de la Fère,” snarled Laurent.

“No,” replied Athos as he grew tired of the game and knocked the rapier out of Laurent's hand, leaving him unarmed and trembling with a sword point to his throat. “You’re the traitor. I am a Musketeer, loyal to the crown.”

Taking advantage of this loss of focus Gallet lunged with his blade, but Porthos was too quick for him, neatly evading the sword swipe and countering with his own, at the same time clubbing him hard across his shoulders with the heavy branch.

Gallet caught his breath and then roared with anger, launching a renewed attack on Porthos and driving him backwards until he was off balance and tumbling into the swamp. Grabbing Gallet by the hem of his doublet he twisted them mid air until his opponent was beneath him, submerged in murky waters.

It was a tempting proposition to drown the man--all those digs about slavery had hurt--but he would sooner see him stand in the dock for his crimes. Cutting lengths of vine to use as binding, he secured Gallet’s wrists and dragged him free of the water.

“Are we done here?” he said to Athos. “I could do with a change of clothes. I’m freezing my bloody nuts off.”

“Can’t have that.” Arching an eyebrow Athos smirked, watching as Laurent was tied up with a second length of vine then tugged to heel like a dog on a lead.

“That’ll do until we get back to camp,” said Porthos, surveying their defeated enemies with satisfaction. “Let’s hope the others have done as well as we have.”

Battle had its own distinctive set of sounds, but as they approached the small island within the swamp that had been the Musketeers’ last known field of combat, there was nothing to be heard except for a rumble of masculine voices.

“Where have you been?” reprimanded d'Artagnan as soon as he caught of them. “I sent Brujon out searching for you.”

“Now really, mon petit,” growled Porthos. “Is that a suitable way to address your general?”

“I could pretend I was talking solely to Athos.” D’Artagnan shook his head at the pair of them. “If it helps sweeten the pill.”

“But we all know he wasn’t,” grinned Aramis. “Honestly, boys. Has the etiquette of war entirely passed you by?” 

“It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” grumbled Porthos as he handed his prisoners over to a couple of their soldiers. “Besides, we had a bone to pick with these fellers.”

“And has it been picked to your satisfaction?” asked Aramis.

“I believe so,” said Athos thoughtfully. “In any case we do have some reason to thank them for their actions. They unknowingly helped resolve a fight between Porthos and I.”

“An argument,” corrected Porthos with a grin. “We'll never fight.”

\---

“Do we dare?” asked Athos, caught in Porthos’ embrace, submitting willingly despite his words of caution.

“The entire army is living it up in Angers,” said Porthos. “We’re alone in camp.” Except for Aramis and d’Artagnan, the best of friends who were tonight under orders to keep all others at bay.

“I'd prefer it if we were safely locked up in our chamber,” said Athos, gasping as Porthos’ hand worked its way inside his breeches and held him firm.

“So would I,” agreed Porthos, “but this’ll do nicely for now.”

The camp bed was a precarious venue for lovemaking, but fear of collapse added extra spice to the already present sense of danger and soon neither man was aware of anything but the other.

“When we get back to Paris,” murmured Porthos, his lips against Athos’ ear as he rode into him. “I’m going to fuck you all night and still be doing so come morning.”

“When we get back home, you mean,” corrected Athos, twisting around in order to take Porthos’ mouth in a long and loving kiss.

Afterwards they lay cuddled together for a while, enjoying the comfort this brought whilst at the same time keeping each other awake with quiet conversation and playful pinches when necessary.

They had the good sense to part company long before dawn and Porthos listened with contentment as Athos shared a few words with d’Artagnan and Aramis before heading back to the deserted cavalry encampment.

All was good. All was very good indeed, and Porthos drifted off to sleep an exceedingly happy man.

Morning brought with it grey skies, icy needles of winter rain and a sluggish column of miserable soldiers, who, having partied to the limits of their endurance in the ale houses of Angers, were now suffering aplenty for it.

“Who needs wine eh?” chucked Porthos, nudging Athos with an elbow as they watched from above as the decampment took place.

“There are other ways to have fun,” agreed Athos, his eyes twinkling and a smile on his lips. “Though both are good.”

“Keep your banter for the bedroom,” said Aramis who had appeared at their side without either of them becoming aware of his presence -- a gentle warning to be careful at all times. “Some of us are sadly neglected in that department.”

“The army is ready, General. Shall I give orders to march out?” asked d’Artagnan as he approached at a pace, thoughts full of Constance and the future.

“Indeed,” said Porthos. “Our work here is done.”

With France safely secured for its young king, the four men rode off side by side, following a banner that proudly displayed Treville's regimental colours. The Musketeers, victorious in battle, headed back home to family, to new babies and trusted friends, but above all else, to love.

\---end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. <3 As always, you are very much appreciated.


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